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THE  COMEDY  OF  HUMAN  LIFE 
By  H.  DE  BALZAC 

PHILOSOPHICAL  STUDIES 

/  — 

THE  MAGIC  SKIN 

(LA  PEAU  DE  CHAGRIN) 


BALZAC'S  NOVELS. 

Translated  by  Miss  K.  P.  Wormeley. 


Already  Published: 
PÈRE  GORIOT. 
DUCHESSE    DE  LANGEAIS. 
RISE    AND    FALL    OP    CESAR  BIROT- 

TEAU. 
EUGENIE  GRANDET. 
COUSIN  PONS. 
THE    COUNTRY  DOCTOR. 
THE    TWO  BROTHERS. 
THE  ALKAHEST. 
MODESTE  MIGNON. 
THE  MAGIC  SKIN  (Peau  de  Chagrin). 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers, 
BOSTON. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 


TRANSLATED  BY 

KATHARINE   PRESCOTT  WORMELEY 


HE  MAGIC  SKIN 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY 

GEORGE   FREDERIC  PARSONS 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS 

3    SOMERSET  STREET 

BOSTON 

1889 


Copyright,  1888, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


©nfbmttg  fpress: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Introduction  vii 

Part     I.    The  Talisman   1 

Part  II.  The  Woman  without  a  Heart  .  86 
Part  III.    The  Death  Agony  212 


?42 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  initial  idea  of  Balzac's  "  Comédie  Humaine  "  was 
derived  from  Geoffroy  Saint-Hilaire's  doctrine  of  the 
unity  of  composition.  He  proposed  to  analyze  society 
as  the  great  philosophical  anatomist  had  analyzed  the 
zoological  kingdom,  and  to  explain  the  differences  be- 
tween classes  of  men  and  women  by  demonstrating 
the  influence  of  environment  in  modifying  a  common 
humanity.  In  order  to  carry  out  this  colossal  under- 
taking it  was  necessary  to  dissect  society,  to  examine 
its  various  states  and  elements,  both  separately  and 
together,  to  catalogue  with  laborious  and  patient 
thoroughness  all  the  manifold  tendencies,  influences, 
external  and  internal  agencies,  which  in  myriad  combi- 
nations operate  to  produce  the  phenomena  called  in  the 
aggregate  civilized  life.  He  did  not  regard  himself  as  a 
writer  of  romances,  but  as  a  social  historian,  or,  as  he 
himself  put  it,  as  the  secretary  of  French  society,  which 
acted  its  own  history  while  he  took  notes  of  all  that 
passed  before  his  eyes.  But,  as  he  says  in  the  general 
introduction  to  his  collected  works,  after  having  done 
all  this,  after  having  accumulated  the  material  for  a  real 
history  of  society  in  the  nineteenth  century,  "ought  I 
not  to  study  the  reasons  or  the  reason  of  these  social 


viii 


Introduction. 


effects,  and  if  possible  surprise  the  hidden  meaning 
in  this  immense  assemblage  of  figures,  passions,  and 
events?  Finally,  after  having  sought,  I  do  not  say 
found,  this  reason,  this  social  motor,  is  it  not  necessary 
to  meditate  the  principles  of  Nature,  and  ascertain  in 
what  society  departs  from  or  approaches  the  eternal  law 
of  Truth  and  Beauty?" 

The  greater  part  of  the  "  Comédie  Humaine  "  is  occu- 
pied with  the  dissection  of  modern,  or,  to  be  exact, 
French  society.  It  has  been  said  of  Balzac  that  he 
preferred  to  paint  the  seamy  side,  — that  he  chose  vice 
rather  than  virtue  for  illustration  ;  but  all  such  criticism 
simply  marks  the  limitations  of  the  critic.  Balzac  in 
truth  painted  with  marvellous  and  absolutely  fearless 
faithfulness  that  which  he  saw.  If  vice  triumphs  often 
in  his  works,  if  virtue  is  often  defeated,  crushed,  mar- 
tyred, it  is  because  this  is  what  happens  in  the  world, 
because  he  could  not  represent  society  as  it  existed 
without  bringing  into  strong  relief  all  those  consequences 
of  unbridled  egoism  which  manifest  themselves  as  injus- 
tice, greed,  lust,  perfidy,  fraud,  dishonesty,  hatred,  mean- 
ness, inhumanity,  and  which  were  then,  are  now,  and 
perhaps  ever  will  be  in  active  antagonism  to  all  that 
belongs  to  the  higher  life.  But  Balzac  was  not  a  pessi- 
mist. He  believed  in  human  progress.  In  the  general 
introduction  already  quoted  he  says  :  "  Man  is  neither 
good  nor  bad.  He  is  born  with  instincts  and  aptitudes. 
Society,  far  from  depraving  him,  as  Rousseau  pretended, 
elevates  and  improves  him.  But  self-interest  develops 
evil  tendencies  in  him  ;  "  and  the  natural  remedy  for 
them,  he  holds,  is  religion. 

That  was  his  personal  belief,  but  it  did  not  interfere 


Introduction. 


ix 


with  the  prosecution  of  his  life-work,  which  was  to  show 
society  its  own  image,  as  exactly  and  completely  as  pos- 
sible, neither  extenuating  anything  nor  setting  down 
aught  in  malice.  Having,  however,  accomplished  this 
great  labor,  he  intended  to  crown  his  work  by  a  series 
of  philosophical  and  analytical  studies,  in  which  the 
inner  significance  of  the  great  drama  should  be  un- 
folded, and  which  should  lead  up  to  the  establishment 
of  certain  principles  tending  to  facilitate  the  evolution 
of  a  higher  civilization.  He  did  not  live  to  accomplish 
this  division  of  his  enterprise,  but  the  "  Philosophical 
Studies,"  of  which  4 'The  Magic  Skin"  (La  Peau  de 
Chagrin)  forms  the  first,  embody  the  main  conceptions 
which  were  to  have  been  developed  in  the  uncompleted 
series.  "The  Magic  Skin"  was  indeed  the  first  of 
his  works  which  secured  to  Balzac  any  serious  reputa- 
tion. In  u  The  Chouans,"  which  preceded  it,  he  had 
shown  a  growing  mastery  of  his  literary  tools.  In  the 
"Physiology  of  Marriage"  he  had  seemed  to  appeal 
only  to  the  French  fondness  for  the  fantastic  and  the 
audacious.  But  "  The  Magic  Skin"  was  the  opening  of 
an  entirely  new  vein  ;  and  while  it  cannot  be  said  that  its 
full  meaning  was  apprehended  by  the  average  reader  of 
his  day,  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  power  and 
erudition  displayed  in  it. 

When  it  was  written,  the  scheme  of  the  "  Comédie 
Humaine"  was  in  embryo  ;  but  Balzac  had  already  ma- 
tured the  philosophy  which  runs  through  all  his  works, 
and  he  was  fresh  from  a  course  of  philosophical,  psy- 
chological and  occult  studies  which  he  had  been  pursu- 
ing steadily  for  three  years,  while  leading  an  ascetic 
life  in  a  miserable  garret,  and  practising  his  pen  upon 


X 


Introduction. 


those  crude  romances  which  he  published  under  various 
pseudonyms,  and  which  have  only  been  gathered  to- 
gether since  his  death,  and  very  unnecessarily  repub- 
lished under  the  collective  title,  "  Œuvres  de  Jeunesse." 
No  author  of  his  eminence  has  been  so  ill-served  in 
respect  of  biographical  monuments.  Not  only  has  no 
attempt  been  made  to  write  an  adequate  life  of  him,  but 
of  the  many  fragmentary  records  prepared  by  his  col- 
leagues and  contemporaries,  there  is  scarcely  one  which 
is  not  frivolous.  Werdet,  Gozlan,  Baschet,  Champ- 
fleury,  Desnoiresterres,  Gautier,  Sainte-Beuve,  Lamar- 
tine, have  all  written  about  him,  but  not  one  otherwise 
than  superficially.  Sainte-Beuve  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, perhaps,  to  deal  with  the  subject  penetratingly, 
but  either  he  could  not  trust  his  personal  feelings  or  he 
felt  Balzac  to  be  beyond  the  gauge  of  his  critical  plum- 
met, and  certainly  neither  of  his  Balzac  papers  is  worthy 
of  him.  Gautier  has  written  appreciatively  and  bril- 
liantly, but  Gautier  could  no  more  comprehend  such  a 
mind  as  Balzac's  than  the  god  Pan  could  comprehend 
the  metaphysic  of  the  schools.  It  happens,  moreover, 
that  the  psychical  side  of  Balzac,  which  was  really  one 
of  the  strongest  in  his  nature,  has  been  in  a  special  way 
obscured  and  neglected  through  the  dense  materialism 
of  the  majority  of  his  contemporaries  and  critics. 

Because  he  depicted  a  state  of  society  in  which 
material  things,  possessions,  ambitions,  were  the  be-all 
and  the  end-all  of  action  and  effort,  it  was  assumed  that 
he  himself  deliberately  selected  that  kind  of  life  for 
illustration.  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth. 
There  was  a  deep  vein  of  mysticism  in  Balzac,  as  there 
must  ever  be  in  men  whose  genius  enables  them  to  take 


Introduction. 


xi 


large  views  of  life,  and  whose  intellectual  enterprise 
leads  them  to  examine  nature  carefully  and  to  reject 
the  trammels  of  authority  in  forming  their  judgments. 
The  spirit  which  sneers  at  mysticism  is  no  doubt  much 
in  evidence  at  present,  but  it  is  none  the  less  a  sign  of 
intellectual  shallowness  and  servitude  to  convention 
which  affords  little  solid  ground  for  self-gratulation. 
Balzac  had  earned  the  right  to  hold  opinions  on  occult 
subjects  by  profound  study.  His  critics,  while  know- 
ing nothing  of  the  studies,  but  proceeding  on  a  priori 
grounds,  have  affected  a  superior  air  in  commenting 
on  his  psychological  views,  and  have  seemed  to  imply 
that  his  researches  in  this  direction  indicated  some 
mental  weakness  on  his  part. 

The  result  has  been  a  sort  of  u  conspiracy  of  silence" 
in  regard  to  one  of  the  most  interesting  periods  of  his 
mental  growth  ;  and  had  he  not,  in  the  present  work 
and  in  "  Louis  Lambert,"  given  some  autobiographic 
material,  very  little  would  be  known  of  his  psychical 
investigations.  Gautier,  whose  own  temperament  may 
almost  be  said  to  have  rendered  the  suprasensual  unin- 
telligible to  him,  had  nevertheless  the  keenness  of  per- 
ception to  realize  that  Balzac  was  not  as  other  men,  but 
that  he  possessed  special  faculties.  Thus  he  observes  : 
"  Though  it  may  seem  a  strange  assertion  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  Balzac  was  a  Seer  ;  "  and  he  goes  on 
to  illustrate  this  by  referring  to  the  wonderful  power 
which  Balzac  exercised,  not  only  of  creating  but  of  sus- 
taining in  full  vigor  and  sharply  differentiated  attitudes 
and  characters,  "the  two  or  three  thousand  types  that 
play  more  or  less  important  parts  in  the  '  Comédie  Hu- 
maine.'"   Gautier  says:  "  He  did  not  copy  them,  he 


xii 


Introduction. 


lived  them  ideally,  wore  their  clothes,  contracted  their 
habits,  surrounded  himself  with  their  conditions  - —  was 
each  one  of  them  whenever  necessary."  Every  com- 
mentator on  JBalzac,  from  Sainte-Beuve  to  Taine,  has 
dwelt  upon  this  characteristic  of  his  work,  —  the  unpar- 
alleled vitality  and  realness  of  his  creations.  No  other 
writer  approaches  him  in  this  ;  and  it  is  a  gift  usually 
sought  to  be  explained  by  using  the  much-abused  word 
"  intuition.'' 

It  is  necessary  to  examine  this  point  with  care,  for 
it  has  a  direct  relation  with  that  philosophical  system 
which  Balzac  made  his  own,  and  through  it  a  clew  to 
many  other  problems  may  be  obtained.  The  faculty 
spoken  of  as  intuition  was,  in  the  author  of  the 
"  Comédie  Humaine,"  as  in  all  creative  geniuses,  that 
of  embodying  his  thoughts  so  perfectly  that  for  him- 
self, during  the  heat  of  composition,  those  embodied 
thoughts  became  to  all  practical  intents  objective  ap- 
pearances. It  has  been  said  repeatedly  that  Balzac 
often  seemed  to  regard  his  characters  as  living  per- 
sons ;  nay,  there  is  at  least  one  striking  remark  of  his 
on  record  which  indicates  that  they  were  to  him  even 
more  real  than  the  material  things  about  him.  But  the 
creation  of  these  eidola,  however  wonderful,  is  as  noth- 
ing to  the  psychical  feat  of  maintaining  them  in  exist- 
ence. The  general  idea  probably  is  that  an  author 
carefully  thinks  out  everything  his  characters  are  to  say 
and  do  before  he  puts  pen  to  paper.  The  fact  is  far 
otherwise.  Both  Thackeray  and  Dickens  asserted  that 
the}7  were  often  absolutely  surprised  by  the  sayings  and 
doings  of  their  creations  ;  and  this  was  no  doubt  also 
the  case  with  Balzac.    There  is  indeed  a  concurrence 


Introduction. 


xiii 


of  evidence  proceeding  from  writers  in  whom  the  so- 
called  intuitional  faculty  has  been  most  fully  developed, 
to  the  effect  that  when  the  imagination  has  once  in- 
formed a  fictitious  character  with  the  semblance  of  life, 
that  character  may  go  on  to  control  its  own  move- 
ments, and  exercise  apparently  an  individual  volition, 
evolving  ideas  and  tendencies,  of  the  suggestion  of 
which  the  author  is  wholly  unconscious. 

The  connection  between  this  singular  experience  and 
the  philosophy  of  Balzac  is  closer  than  ma}^  at  first  ap- 
pear. He  controlled  two  avenues  to  knowledge,  —  his 
literary  acquirements  and  his  observation  of  the  world. 
To  the  mastery  of  each  he  had  devoted  time  and  pa- 
tient study  ;  and  such  was  the  fusing  force  of  his  genius 
that  he  was  able  to  employ  either  method  indifferently. 
His  personal  experience  was  of  a  character  to  convince 
him  of  the  potency  of  Will  and  of  Thought.  For  not 
only  could  he  create  immaterial  characters,  and  clothe 
them  with  a  vitality  so  strong  that,  as  one  of  his  critics 
observes,  they  seem  ready  to  leap  out  of  the  pages  of 
his  books,  but  in  encountering  men  and  women  in  the 
material  world  he  seemed  to  himself  able  to  penetrate 
beneath  the  mask  of  flesh,  to  survey  their  minds,  to 
apprehend  their  joys  and  sorrows,  and,  as  he  himself 
said,  "their  desires,  their  needs,  all  passed  into  my 
soul,  and  my  soul  passed  into  theirs."  This  strange 
endowment  must  have  generated  exceptional  ideas  in 
him  concerning  the  power  of  Thought  ;  and  even  from 
early  youth  the  problem  of  Will  had  fascinated  and  ab- 
sorbed him.  All  that  is  said  in  this  book  on  the 
"Treatise  of  the  Will"  is  autobiographical.  The  dis- 
cussion of  the  question  indeed  belongs  properly  to  the 


xiv  Introduction. 

history  of  "  Louis  Lambert  ;  "  but  it  may  be  said  here 
that  Balzac  himself  exhibited  throughout  his  life  an  ab- 
normally energetic  and  persistent  Volition.  The  con- 
fession of  Raphael  in  "  The  Magic  Skin "  is  in  fact  the 
confession  of"  Balzac  so  far  as  it  relates  to  his  early 
trials,  his  intellectual  struggles,  his  stern  self-repression, 
and  his  pursuit  of  the  deepest  problems.  His  carnal 
propensities  were  undoubtedly  those  of  a  bon  vivant 
and  man  of  the  world  ;  but  no  monk  of  the  Thebaid 
ever  crucified  the  flesh  more  rigorously  than  this  robust 
and  society-loving  Tourangean. 

In  the  years  during  which  he  haunted  the  streets  of 
Paris  and  took  observations  of  real  life,  and  watched 
the  motives  of  men  and  analyzed  human  conduct,  he 
saw  enough  to  strengthen  and  confirm  his  belief  as  to 
the  gravity  of  the  parts  played  in  the  human  comedy 
by  Will  and  Thought.  Yet  it  is  not  to  be  inferred  that 
he  was  the  discoverer  of  a  new  philosophy  or  psychol- 
ogy. He  had  read  deeply  in  the  lore  of  the  East  as 
well  as  in  that  of  the  West.  He  had  held  no  human 
thought  to  be  above  or  below  his  pains.  He  was  as 
well  acquainted  with  the  metaphysics  of  Hindustan  as 
with  those  of  Europe.  His  memory  was  prodigious, 
and  he  was  always  able  to  collate  his  own  experiences 
with  the  dicta  of  others  in  all  ages.  Something  of  that 
which  he  saw  at  this  time,  something  of  that  Paris 
world  of  which  he  became  the  analyst  and  historian, 
M.  Taine  has  described  with  graphic  force.  "  In  that 
black  ant-hill,"  he  writes,  "life  is  too  active.  Democ- 
racy established  and  government  centralized  have 
drawn  together  all  the  men  of  ambition,  and  inflamed 
all  their  aspirations.    Gold,  glory,  pleasure,  prepared 


Introduction. 


xv 


and  heaped  up,  are  quarries  pursued  by  a  maddened 
pack  of  insatiable  desires,  aggravated  by  the  struggle 
and  the  rivalry.  To  succeed  !  —  this  word,  unknown  a 
century  since,  is  to-day  the  sovereign  ruler  of  all  lives. 
Paris  is  an  arena  ;  involuntarily  one  is  drawn  into  it  ; 
everything  vanishes  but  the  idea  of  the  goal  and  the 
rivals  ;  the  runner  feels  their  breath  upon  his  shoulder  ; 
all  his  energies  are  on  the  strain  ;  in  this  spasm  of  voli- 
tion he  doubles  his  enthusiasm,  and  contracts  the  fever 
which  at  once  exhausts  and  sustains  him.  Thence  arise 
prodigies  of  work,  and  not  only  the  work  of  the  man  of 
science  who  studies  until  he  sinks,  or  of  the  artist  who 
creates  until  he  collapses,  but  the  work  of  the  man 
who  plots,  intrigues,  weighs  his  words,  measures  his 
friendships,  interweaves  the  myriad  threads  of  his  hopes 
to  catch  a  clientage,  a  place,  or  a  name.  Far  indeed 
are  we  from  the  ways  of  our  fathers,  and  from  those 
salons  where  a  well- written  letter,  a  prettily- turned 
madrigal,  a  witty  saying,  gave  interest  to  a  whole 
evening,  and  sometimes  founded  a  reputation  !  But 
this  is  nothing  ;  the  fever  of  the  brain  is  worse  than 
that  of  the  will.  The  accession  of  the  bourgeoisie  has 
given  the  freedom  of  the  city  to  all  the  professions  ; 
with  specialists,  special  ideas  have  entered  the  world  ; 
the  current  of  thought  is  no  longer  a  gentle  stream  of 
fashionable  slander  and  gossip,  of  gallantry  or  light 
philosophy,  but  a  great  river  which  is  swollen  by  the 
turbulent  affluents  of  finance,  speculation,  chicanery, 
diplomacy,  and  erudition  ;  it  is  a  torrent  which,  pour- 
ing every  morning  into  each  brain,  both  nourishes  and 
drowns  the  receiver." 

All  the  strongest  minds  of  the  whole  world,  he  con- 


xvi 


Introduction. 


tinues,  contribute  to  this  overwhelming  flood.  Who- 
ever thinks  is  represented.  Every  conceivable  idea  has 
its  special  advocate  and  illustrator.  "  From  all  these 
smoking  brains,  thought  rises  like  a  vapor;  it  is 
breathed  invôluntarily  ;  it  sparkles  in  a  thousand  rest- 
less eyes."  And  what,  he  asks,  is  the  relief  from  this 
fever  of  the  will  and  of  thought?  "  Another  fever,  — 
that  of  the  senses.  In  the  country  the  tired  man  goes 
to  bed  at  nine,  or  sits  in  the  chimney-corner  with  his 
wife  and  pokes  the  fire,  or  takes  a  stroll  in  the  great 
empty  high-road,  peacefully,  with  slow  steps,  contem- 
plating the  monotonous  plain,  and  thinking  of  the 
weather  of  the  morrow.  Observe  Paris  at  the  same 
hour:  the  gas  is  lighted,  the  boulevard  fills,  the  the- 
atres are  crowded,  the  masses  amuse  themselves  ;  they 
go  wherever  mouth,  ears,  or  eyes  discern  a  possible  grat- 
ification, a  pleasure  of  a  refined,  artificial  kind,  —  a  kind 
of  unwholesome  cookery,  designed  to  stimulate,  not  to 
nourish,  — offered  by  greed  and  excess  to  satiety  and  cor- 
ruption." This  is  the  Paris  Balzac  studied,  and  which, 
M.  Taine  holds,  had  entered  into  him  more  deeply  than 
into  other  men.  4  6  Who,"  he  says,  ' '  has  fought,  thought, 
and  enjoyed  more  than  he  ?  Whose  soul  and  body  have 
burned  more  fiercely  with  all  these  fevers  ?  " 

But  M.  Taine  is  not  quite  right  here.  It  was 
Balzac  who  grasped  Paris  more  completely  than  ordi- 
nary men,  not  Paris  that  obtained  a  greater  mastery 
than  common  over  him.  His  genius  lifted  the  veil, 
clarified  the  turbid  atmosphere,  disentangled  the  con- 
fused threads  of  existence,  and  evolved  from  the  min- 
gled strife  of  will,  thought,  and  sense,  that  marvellous 
gallery  of  pictures  which  constitutes  the  "  Comédie 


Introduction. 


xvii 


Humaine. "  It  is,  however,  curious,  and  perhaps  some- 
what significant,  that  M.  Taine,  in  describing  this  Paris 
world  employs  Balzac's  own  methods,  figures,  and 
points  of  view.  When  he  speaks  of  the  smoking  brains 
whence  the  seething  thoughts  issue  like  vapor,  he  is 
following  in  the  lines  laid  down  by  Balzac  in  his  gen- 
eral introduction,  and  developed  further  in  this  work. 
For  thought,  according  to  the  great  writer,  is  as  dis- 
tinctly one  of  the  forces  of  nature  as  electricity  and 
magnetism,  and  together  with  will-power  it  dominates 
the  universe.  The  doctrine  is  no  doubt  ancient.  It 
can  be  found  in  the  Kabbala,  and  it  may  be  traced  far 
beyond  the  genesis  of  the  Kabbala,  in  the  venerable 
philosophies  of  Asia.  Offshoots  from  this  doctrine 
moreover  are  to  be  seen  even  to-day  in  the  popular 
superstitions  of  many  countries,  Western  as  well  as 
Eastern,  and  —  so  do  extremes  meet — in  the  best- 
attested  records  of  modern  medical  science.  Balzac  held 
that  Will  and  Thought  can  and  do  influence  and  control 
material  things.  The  sobriety  of  such  a  contention  can 
only  be  questioned  by  those  who  are  unacquainted  with 
physiology,  psychology,  and  pathology.  It  is,  how- 
ever, rather  singular  that  whereas  the  influence  of  the 
mind  upon  the  body  it  occupies  has  long  been  fully 
recognized,  the  possibility  that  the  mind  of  one  person 
may  influence  either  the  mind  or  the  body  of  another 
has  onty  been  admitted  after  a  protracted  resistance, 
and  when  denial  had  become  futile. 

The  recent  researches  of  Charcot,  Richet,  and  others 
into  the  phenomena  called  hypnotic,  and  the  remark- 
able discoveries  made  concerning  the  influence  of  sug- 
gestion upon  sensitive  subjects,  have  familiarized  the 

b 


xviii 


Introduction. 


public  with  facts  which  are  clearly  related  in  many 
wa}Ts  to  the  theories  of  Balzac.  If  the  simple  exercise 
of  volition  on  the  part  of  a  magnetizer,  unexpressed  in 
words  or  by  gestures,  can  produce  in  the  subject  all 
the  effects  df  a  self-evolved  purpose,  and  can  even 
close  the  mind  of  that  subject  to  all  moral  warnings 
and  inhibitions,  so  that  the  suggestion  of  murder  will 
be  acted  upon  with  precisely  the  same  unhesitating 
readiness  as  a  prompting  to  eat  or  drink  ;  and  if  this 
external  control  can  be  so  employed  that  the  sugges- 
tion will  be  carried  out,  not  on  the  instant  of  release 
from  the  hypnotic  state,  but  after  a  lapse  of  time,  — the 
difficulty  of  escaping  the  conclusion  that  will-power  is 
a  distinct  natural  force  is  clearly  increased  enormously. 
The  recent  experiments  at  the  Salpêtrière  would,  how- 
ever, not  have  astonished  Balzac  more  than  the}'  sur- 
prise those  who  have  studied  the  occult  sciences.  The 
power  now  being  brought  within  the  purview  of  sci- 
ence was  not  only  known  to,  but  exploited  by  inquiring 
minds  ages  ago.  Like  so  many  of  the  alleged  discover- 
ies upon  which  Western  civilization  prides  itself,  this 
is  in  truth  not  a  discovery  at  all,  but  a  tardy  recogni- 
tion of  truth  long  since  ascertained  in  other  countries, 
and  until  now  obstinately  and  stupidly  ignored  by 
those  who  at  present  plume  themselves  upon  their 
knowledge  of  it.  For  centuries  obscure  phenomena 
have  been  dealt  with  in  the  West  upon  much  the  same 
principle.  When  facts  could  neither  be  denied  nor  ex- 
plained they  were  labelled  with  a  name  which  sounded  as 
if  it  signified  something.  The  term  "  hysteria  "  has 
thus  been  employed,  or  rather  abused,  in  medicine,  and 
to-day  it  covers  a  multitude  of  phenomena  which  a 


Introduction. 


xix 


stubborn  materialism  is  utterly  incapable  of  accounting 
for.  Take  for  example  those  singular  collective  at- 
tacks of  frenzy  which  have  periodically  been  observed 
in  many  countries,  and  of  which  a  case  has  occurred 
during  the  present  year.  In  these  remarkable  seizures 
whole  communities  are  affected.  The  books  are  full  of 
them.  They  have  been  recorded  for  centuries.  When 
Europe  abounded  with  monastic  and  conventual  es- 
tablishments they  were  frequently  experienced  in  nun- 
neries. The  Church  found  an  easy  explanation  of  the 
phenomena  in  attributing  them  to  demoniac  possession. 
The  Reformation  did  not  put  a  stop  to  them.  When 
there  were  no  longer  secluded  communities  the  attacks 
occurred  in  rural  districts,  sometimes  involving  all  the 
inhabitants  of  -a  village,  sometimes  being  confined  to 
the  young  men  and  maids,  and  again  taking  possession 
of  the  children  only.  During  the  early  part  of  this 
century  notable  disturbances  of  this  kind  took  place  in 
Wales  and  parts  of  Ireland.  At  almost  the  same  time 
what  was  then  "  the  West"  in  the  United  States  was 
the  scene  of  frequent  similar  outbreaks.  Often  they 
were  intimately  associated  with  religious  excitement. 
It  was  during  a  period  of  such  general  disturbance, 
when  the  air  seemed  full  of  malefic  cerebral  stimulants, 
that  Mormonism  took  its  rise. 

In  all  these  cases,  as  in  the  well-known  though  ill- 
understood  excitements  connected  with  negro  camp- 
meetings,  the  most  prominent  phenomenon  is  the  power 
of  contagion  present.  A  story  is  told  of  a  hard-headed 
sceptic,  who,  while  riding  in  the  West  with  a  friend 
one  day,  came  to  a  stream  in  which  a  Mormon  mission- 
ary was  baptizing  converts,  while   he  harangued  a 


XX 


Introduction* 


crowd.  The  travellers  alighted  and  sat  down  to  listen. 
Suddenly  the  sceptic  turned  pale,  as  though  about  to 
faint,  and  cried  to  his  companion,  "  Take  me  away!" 
He  was  helped  to  his  horse,  and  after  riding  a  mile  or 
two  partially  recovered  himself,  and  turning  to  his 
friend  said  :  "If  you  had  not  taken  me  away  when  you 
did  I  should  have  plunged  into  the  water  with  those 
converts.  I  had  lost  all  control  over  myself."  This  is 
but  a  typical  illustration  of  the  imperative  urgency  with 
which  the  mysterious  influence  operates  on  such  occa- 
sions. We  may  call  this  influence  Irysteria,  but  we 
shall  be  as  far  as  ever  from  understanding  the  subject, 
and  have  only  put  off  the  mystery,  after  the  fashion  of 
the  housemaid  who  swept  the  dust  about  until  she  lost 
it.  Perhaps  the  theory  of  hypnotic  suggestion  may 
now  afford  a  clew  to  the  problem.  Dr.  Carpenter  was 
wont  to  make  great  play  with  his  hypothesis  of  "  ex- 
pectant attention."  He  held  that  when  the  mind  was 
strongly  wrought  up,  and  anticipating  some  novel  ex- 
perience, or  the  impact  of  some  potent  influence,  it  was 
possible  to  produce  in  it  the  most  surprising  hallucina- 
tions. It  might  at  such  times  be  fooled  to  the  top  of 
its  bent,  be  cheated  by  simulated  reports  of  the  quies- 
cent sensory  nerves,  be  made  to  accept  air-drawn 
phantoms  for  objective  realities,  be  induced  to  confound 
a  simple  stick  of  wood  with  a  strongly-charged  elec- 
trical conductor.  Yet  Dr.  Carpenter  was  obliged 
finally  to  admit  that  expectant  attention  did  not  ac- 
count for  many  phenomena;  and  had  he  survived  to 
this  day  it  is  quite  possible  that  he  would  have  wel- 
comed the  theory  of  hypnotic  suggestion  as  tending  to 
round  out  and  complete  his  doctrine. 


Introduction. 


xxi 


What  the  Psychical  Research  Society  call  "  telepathy  " 
is  but  another  phase  of  the  same  question,  and  though 
the  exceeding  caution  which  has  characterized  the  inquiry 
thus  far  is  calculated  to  exhaust  the  patience  of  such  as 
look  for  sensational  developments  only,  it  is  really  a 
line  of  investigation  which  promises  better  results  than 
the  experiments  and  conjectures  of  the  author  of 
"  Mental  Physiology"  and  his  school.  Telepathy  in- 
volves recognition  of  at  least  some  means  of  communi- 
cation between  mind  and  mind  apart  from  the  ordinary 
avenues,  and  if  carried  far  enough  this  inquest  may 
terminate  in  the  re-discovery  of  physical  and  psychical 
truths  which  were  known  to  the  ancients.  Intuition, 
however,  is  not  the  common  heritage,  and  in  such 
measure  as  Balzac  possessed  it  is  known  to  but  few. 
M.  Taine  does  not  exactly  laugh,  but  certainly  wonders 
at  him,  because  of  his  theory  that  "  ideas  are  organized 
beings  which  exist  in  the  invisible  world  and  influence 
our  destinies."  Again,  this  is  a  venerable  doctrine,  but 
it  is  of  a  kind  which  to  Balzac  must  have  seemed  al- 
most a  truism,  —  for  the  strength  of  his  creative  powers 
was  such  that  the  ideas  which  came  to  him  passed  at 
once  into  actual  being  for  Mm  ;  and  the  occult  and 
Kabbalistic  belief  that  not  only  deeds  but  words  and 
thoughts  remain  forever  preserved  in  the  "  astral 
light"  must  have  appeared  quite  in  accord  with  his 
personal  experience  so  far  as  the  latter  went.  With 
his  views  of  the  importance  of  Will  and  Thought  in  the 
scheme  of  things,  the  suggestions  of  physical  science 
even  in  this  line  of  thought  were  of  a  character  to  stim- 
ulate imagination  and  encourage  daring  inquiry.  For 
if  no  act  or  utterance  of  any  living  being  leaves  the 


xxii 


Introduction. 


universe  exactly  as  it  was  ;  if  in  the  elastic  medium 
which  surrounds  us  the  flutter  of  a  gnat's  wing,  no  less 
than  the  explosion  of  a  volcano,  is  registered  in  vibra- 
tions which  must  continue  to  infinity  ;  if  the  curse  of 
the  ruffian,  *the  groan  of  his  dying  victim,  the  sob  of 
the  bereaved  mother,  the  shout  of  the  charging  soldier, 
each  in  its  way,  and  each  differently,  affects  the  great 
mundane  system,  however  impalpably  and  imperceptibly 
to  us,  — how  much  more  credibly  must  the  fundamental 
cause  of  all  physical  action,  the  energizing  Will  of  man, 
impress  itself  in  its  operation  upon  the  sphere  corres- 
ponding in  nature  to  its  own  refined  and  tenuous  sub- 
stance. To  the  Seer  there  was  no  inherent  difficulty 
in  such  conceptions.  Will  and  Thought  were  in  his 
view  not  only  real  things,  but,  without  figure  and  with- 
out mental  reservation,  the  most  real  entities  in  exist- 
ence, and  the  most  influential. 

The  truth  that  thought  rules  the  world  has  indeed 
been  always  perceived  by  the  observing,  and  recog- 
nized directly  or  indirectly  by  mankind.  Even  the 
physical  effects  of  psychological  conditions  have  been 
so  generally  noted  that  among  the  commonplaces  of 
speech  in  most  countries  are  words  or  phrases  attempt- 
ing some  definition  of  these  phenomena.  When,  for  in- 
stance, the  "personal  magnetism"  of  some  prominent 
man  is  spoken  of,  what  is  really  meant  is  the  remarka- 
ble development  of  his  volitional  energy,  which,  when 
exerted  to  attract  and  conciliate  those  who  approach 
him,  affects  them  in  a  peculiar,  subtle  way,  evoking 
their  sympathies,  and  drawing  their  affections  towards 
him,  without  conscious  exercise  of  their  own  will  and 
judgment.    This  is  domination  of  weaker  wills  by  a 


Introduction. 


xxiii 


strong  one,  and  it  is  a  kind  of  manifestation  shown  by 
common  experience  to  be  often  associated  with  the  pur- 
suit of  large  ambitions.  The  popular  explanation  of 
such  influence  is  really  an  admission  of  its  occult  char- 
acter. The  term  "  personal  magnetism  "  is  intended  to 
cover  something  other  than,  and  beyond  the  ordinary 
impression  made  by  a  pleasant  voice,  eye,  face,  or 
manner.  It  is  in  fact  the  popular  way  of  expressing 
that  limited  and  imperfect  apprehension  of  the  true 
nature  of  Thought  and  Will  which  represents  the  least 
advanced  conceptions  on  the  subject.  Balzac's  theory 
of  Thought  and  Will  as  natural  forces,  like  electricity, 
capable  of  being  concentrated  and  directed  with  special 
effect  upon  particular  objects,  on  the  other  hand,  may 
be  regarded  as  the  expression  of  an  abnormally  ex- 
tended view,  —  as  the  deduction  of  a  thinker  and  ex- 
perimentalist whose  capacity  for  analysis  and  whose 
insight  so  far  exceeded  those  of  the  generality  of  men 
as  to  give  peculiar  weight  and  importance  to  his  con- 
clusions. For  this  line  of  research  he  possessed  rare 
and  precious  aptitudes.  Excelling  in  that  creative  men- 
tal force  which  is  called  imagination  perhaps  every 
modern  save  Shakspeare,  no  man  could  have  been 
better  fitted  to  examine  mental  processes,  to  gauge 
their  effects,  to  estimate  their  significance,  and  to  de- 
fine their  nature  and  scope.  No  man  has  ever  been 
more  thoroughly  equipped  for  this  task  by  knowledge 
of  philosophy,  science,  and  human  nature.  Taine  said 
of  him  that  "  the  immensity  of  his  undertaking  was 
almost  equalled  by  the  immensity  of  his  erudition.,, 
In  the  fields  wrhere  it  is  possible  to  follow  him,  many 
have  tried  to  catch  him  tripping,  but  few  have  been 


xxiv 


Introduction. 


repaid  by  any  discovery  of  error  on  his  part.  What  he 
knew  —  and  it  was  much  —  he  knew  with  a  surprising 
thoroughness.  He  was  no  smatterer,  though  he  took 
all  knowledge  for  his  domain.  No  such  blunders  as 
Goethe  made  in  the  law  of  optics  can  be  charged 
against  Balzac.  It  is  only  in  regard  to  his  theories 
concerning  that  region  of  physiological  psj'chology 
which  remains  no-man's  land  still  that  any  of  his 
critics  have  ventured  to  question  his  accuracy  ;  and 
in  all  that  pertains  to  that  region  dogmatism  is 
prohibited  by  the  uniform  failure  of  at  least  the 
average  human  intelligence  to  solve  the  central  prob- 
lems involved. 

While  recognizing  the  power  of  Thought,  however, 
Balzac  perceived  in  it  a  destructive,  as  well  as  a  con- 
structive efficiency  ;  and  this  view  it  is  which  he  has 
especially  illustrated  in  "  The  Magic  Skin."  Here  also 
he  only  went  before  his  contemporaries  and  predeces- 
sors in  degree,  not  in  kind.  The  idea  that  the  mind 
might  exhaust,  wear  out  the  body,  had  long  been  en- 
tertained. Thus  Fuller,  speaking  of  the  Duke  of  Alva, 
says  :  "  He  was  one  of  a  lean  body  and  visage,  as  if 
his  eager  soul,  biting  for  anger  at  the  clog  of  his  body, 
desired  to  fret  a  passage  through  it."  So  also  Dryden, 
in  a  familiar  passage,  describes  — 

"  A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pygmy  body  to  decay, 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay." 

Shakspeare  has  many  similar  allusions.  But  Balzac's 
philosophy  included  analysis  of  the  consequences,  not 
only  of  use,  but  abuse  of  the  thinking  power,  and  he 


Introduction. 


XXV 


wrote  "  The  Magic  Skin"  as  a  commentary  upon  one  of 
the  salient  evils  of  modern  civilization  :  the  increasing- 
tendency  to  excess  generated  by  the  headlong  pace  at 
which  existence  is  carried  on,  and  stimulated  by  the 
intenseness  of  competition,  and  the  enhanced  attrac- 
tiveness of  the  objects  of  human  desire.  M.  Taine, 
already  cited,  has  given  his  picture  of  the  kind  of  life 
drawn  by  the  author  of  the  "Comédie  Humaine."  It 
was  in  that  turbulent  scene  that  he  watched  the  expan- 
sion of  what  he  held  to  be  suicidal  habits  among  the 
most  energetic  and  capable  members  of  society.  Paris 
apart,  there  is  no  place  second  to  New  York,  probably, 
in  the  eager  adoption  of  the  same  business  cult.  As 
Taine  says  of  his  own  capital,  everything  has  been 
subordinated  to  "  success"  in  the  American  metropolis. 
There,  as  in  Paris,  all  the  energies  of  thousands  are 
directed  to  the  one  end,  and  vitality  is  expended  upon  its 
attainment  with  a  lavishness  which  not  seldom  entails 
the  penalty  of  incapacity  for  enjoyment  when  the  long 
sought  quarry  is  at  length  run  down. 

uThe  Magic  Skin"  ought,  indeed,  to  be  a  familiar 
and  easily  apprehended  s}Tmbol  in  this  country,  for  too 
many  of  our  young  men  have  made  Raphael's  rash 
choice,  and  undergone  Raphael's  punishment.  This 
part  of  the  allegor}^,  at  least,  is  very  transparent.  The 
Eastern  talisman  is  the  undisciplined  lust  of  worldly 
success,  indulgence  in  which  shortens  life  literally 
and  directly  by  exhausting  the  nervous  energy.  The 
old  bric-a-brac  dealer  expounds  the  doctrine  in  his 
speech  warning  the  desperate  3-outh  against  the  awful 
contract  proposed  in  the  Arabic  inscription  on  the 
skin. 


xxvi 


Introduction. 


The  influence  of  strong  ideas  socially  is  a  favorite 
theme  with  Balzac.  In  fact  it  constitutes  so  intimate 
an  element  in  his  social  theory  that  he  treats  it  in  a 
great  variety  of  ways.  M.  Felix  Da  vin  wrote,  in 
1834,  a  general  introduction  to  the  fourth  edition  of 
the  "  Philosophical  Studies,"  and  as  this  paper  was 
prepared  avowedly  under  the  inspiration  of  Balzac, 
its  statements  and  explanations  are  trustworthy.  M. 
Da  vin  devotes  considerable  space  to  this  question  of 
the  general  treatment  of  what  may  be  called  '  '  domi- 
nant ideas  "  in  the  "  Studies  of  Manners."  The  author, 
he  observes,  is  constantly  exhibiting  the  irritation  and 
aggravation  of  instincts  by  ideas,  the  consequent  gener- 
ation of  passion,  and  the  disorganizing  effects  pro- 
duced by  the  operation  of  social  influences  upon  this 
resultant.  And  he  names  several  stories,  such  as 
"  Adieu,"  "  El  Verdugo,"  "  Le  Réquisitionnais,"  u  Un 
Drame  au  bord  de  la  mer,"  "  César  Birotteau,"  etc., 
in  all  of  which,  life  is  destroyed  by  excessive  thought, 
ideation,  or  imagination.  The  maternal  love,  family 
pride,  greed  of  inheritance,  anger,  fear  of  shame,  each 
in  turn  appears  as  the  lethal  instrument,  and  kills  the 
victims  as  surety  as  knife,  cord,  or  poison  could  do. 
The  tendency  to  excess  is  so  strongly  marked  a  char- 
acteristic of  the  present  time  that  no  careful  and  in- 
telligent study  of  it  can  be  other  than  interesting.  It 
happens,  too,  that  the  Paris  of  Balzac's  time  was  so  far 
in  advance  of  the  rest  of  the  world  in  relation  to  wThirl 
and  fever  and  fury  of  life  that  the  rest  of  the  world 
has  consumed  a  generation  in  getting  to  where  the 
French  capital  was  then.  One  consequence  of  this  is 
that  Balzac's  descriptions  of  his  own  period  appear, 


Introduction. 


xxvii 


especially  so  far  as  concerns  his  Paris  observations,  to 
be  contemporary  records,  and  to  bear  the  very  form 
and  pressure  of  the  time.  With  the  general  increase 
of  wealth  and  luxury,  the  temptations  to  excess  in  the 
use  of  acquisitive  means  have  multiplied  enormously, 
while  degrees  of  prosperity  which  half  a  century  ago 
were  thought  scarcely  attainable  are  now  so  far  down 
in  the  scale  of  possibilities  that  the  truly  ambitious  no 
longer  regard  them  as  deserving  serious  consideration. 

The  episode  of  the  banquet  at  Taillefer's  (who  fig- 
ures in  "  L'Auberge  rouge"  in  a  very  sinister  rôle)  was 
originally  published  separately  ;  and  the  guests,  oddly 
enough,  were  given  the  names  of  living  writers  and 
poets.  Victor  Hugo  and  Thiers,  among  others,  were 
thus  exhibited,  and  Balzac  does  not  appear  to  have 
thought  that  they  had  any  cause  of  complaint.  Con- 
sidering the  state  of  the  Paris  press  at  the  time,  perhaps 
they  had  not  ;  for  the  period  was  one  of  gross  person- 
alities, and  French  journalism  was  incredibly  licentious 
and  not  less  incredibly  corrupt.  When  the  banquet 
scene  was  put  in  its  proper  place  in  the  completed 
story  the  real  names  were  exchanged  for  the  fictitious 
ones  which  appear  at  present.  This  episode  is  but  the 
machinery  for  introducing  Raphael's  story  of  the  coun- 
tess Fedora,  the  woman  without  a  heart,  and  this  is 
another  figure.  Fedora  is  symbolical  of  Societ}^  which 
lives  for  itself  and  its  own  pleasures  and  luxuries  ; 
which  is  polished,  cold,  indifferent,  yet  desirous  of 
obtaining  gratuitously  the  best  of  all  the  lives  attracted 
by  its  glitter  and  ostentation  ;  which  allures  by  its  air 
of  distinction,  its  parade  of  wealth,  its  affectation  of 
exclusiveness,  its  versatility  and  surface  show  of  intel- 


xxviii 


Introduction. 


lect  and  wit  ;  and  which  is,  like  the  beautiful  and  fasci- 
nating Russian,  absolutely  void  of  heart,  and  scarcely 
capable  of  feigning  sensibility  enough  to  make  a  deco- 
rous appearance. 

Raphael  brings  to  this  siren  all  the  treasures  of 
youth.  The  discipline  of  his  adolescence,  the  stern 
rigor  of  his  garret  life,  the  nature  of  his  studies  and  his 
intellectual  tendencies  and  preferences,  may  all  be  re- 
garded as  pages  from  Balzac's  autobiography.  The 
"  Treatise  of  the  Will  "  referred  to  is  his  own  college 
experiment,  so  cruelly  crushed  by  the  fatal  imbecility  of 
a  booby  teacher.  Emerging  from  his  garret,  however, 
Raphael  enters  a  realm  which  is  pure  fiction.  There 
is  never  any  hope  for  him,  and  perhaps  he  perceives 
this,  though  he  cannot  relinquish  his  pursuit  of  the 
heartless  Fedora.  But  Raphael  himself  is  not  a  char- 
acter calculated  to  attract  much  sympathy.  Designed 
to  illustrate  Balzac's  theory  of  the  baleful  social  effect 
of  excess,  he  exhibits  from  the  first  an  absorbed  ego- 
ism, which  puts  him  morally  almost  on  a  level  with  the 
Societjr  he  learns  to  hate  and  despise.  There  is  little 
nobility  in  the  youth.  He  possesses  marked  intellectual 
ability,  but  little  heart.  The  suffering  he  endures  from 
Fedora  appears  to  be  mainly  inflicted  upon  his  vanity. 
His  love  for  the  countess  is  something  between  a  ca- 
price and  a  calculation.  It  has  in  it  scarcely  any  spon- 
taneity, and  when  at  last  the  futility  of  his  devotion 
is  realized,  and  he  determines  upon  suicide,  his  motive 
is  clearly  not  merely  despairing  love,  but  discouraged 
ambition.  Of  course  Balzac  meant  all  this  to  be  so. 
The  possessor  of  the  magic  skin  must  be  a  self-indul- 
gent, egoistic  person.    He  could  not  possibly  be  a 


Introduction.  xxix 

man  of  the  Benassis  type  in  the  "Country  Doctor." 
Raphael  desires  enjoyment,  even  gross,  sensual  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  to  obtain  it  he  is  willing  to  risk  his  life,  as 
he  has  already  risked  and  lost,  first  his  opportunities, 
and  then  his  property.  No  doubt  the  influence  of 
Fedora  counts  for  much  in  his  depravation.  She  has 
hardened  and  roughened  him,  killed  in  him  all  confi- 
dence in  womanhood,  fostered  in  him  the  cynicism 
whose  germs  were  inherited,  and  confirmed  in  him  all 
the  selfish  propensities  with  which  he  began  life.  But  the 
3roung  man  is  none  the  less  the  natural  possessor  of 
the  talisman,  so  far  as  his  abstract  ideas  are  concerned. 
It  seems  to  him  that  he  will  hesitate  at  nothing  in  fol- 
lowing out  his  self-indulgent  fancies.  In  effect,  the 
moment  he  fully  realizes  the  nature  of  the  contract  into 
which  he  has  entered,  all  possibility  of  enjoying  his 
newly-acquired  power  vanishes  for  him  ;  and  this  is  the 
logical  and  inevitable  consequence  of  the  same  egoism 
that  led  him  to  accept  the  magic  skin. 

Here  the  parable  is  plain.  The  abuse  of  Will  and 
Thought  brings  its  natural  penalty.  The  man  who  de- 
votes himself  to  the  attainment  of  material  ends  is  liable 
to  find,  when  the  goal  is  reached,  that  he  is  no  longer 
capable  of  enjoying  the  prize.  Raphael,  with  the 
magic  skin  hanging  on  his  wall,  and  the  effects  of  the 
expenditure  of  will-power  under  his  eyes,  is  paralyzed. 
Desire  means  death  to  him,  and  to  avoid  it  he  must 
vegetate,  live  by  line  and  plummet,  ward  off  all  excit- 
ing causes,  and  above  all  shun  everything  that  may 
induce  him  to  wish  anything.  It  would  not  be  possible 
to  conceive  a  more  tremendous  satire  than  this,  and 
yet  it  is  not  an  exaggeration  of  the  actual,  but  merely 


XXX 


Introduction. 


a  new  way  of  presenting  it.  TVhat  Raphael  suffers 
from  the  contraction  of  the  magic  skin  is  precisely  what 
living  men  suffer  who  have  abused  their  will-power  in 
pursuing  success  in  material  things.  They  are  in  the 
position  of  Tantalus.  With  the  means  in  their  hands 
to  obtain  everything,  they  are  disabled  from  attempting 
to  procure  anything.  They  can  only  watch  the  shrink- 
ing talisman  which  holds  their  life,  and  limit  their  de- 
sires to  the  attainment  of  a  state  of  existence  as  closely 
resembling  annihilation  as  possible.  This  is  what  the 
talisman  has  brought  Raphael  at  the  beginning  of  the 
third  part,  and  this  is  the  most  deeply  philosophical 
division  of  the  book,  as  well  as  the  most  strikingly 
impressive  and  dramatic. 

Raphael,  the  disillusionized  student,  who  at  the 
opening  of  the  tale  has  resolved  to  end  his  misery  by 
suicide,  appears,  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  part, 
strangely  metamorphosed.  The  reckless  youth  who 
wished,  when  the  talisman  was  first  offered  to  him,  to 
die  at  the  culmination  of  a  wild  debauch,  has  been 
brought  to  desire  life  with  an  intense  longing,  merely 
as  life.  The  possession  of  the  means  by  which  his 
every  wish  can  be  gratified  has  suddenly  checked  his 
fierce  acquisitiveness, — not,  however,  because  he  has 
gained  any  loftier  view  of  the  value  and  purpose  of 
existence,  but  because  in  his  final  struggle  we  are  to 
be  shown  egoism  engaged  in  death-grapple  with  itself. 
Raphael  is  a  type  of  modern  civilization,  of  the  eager 
self-seeker,  the  selfish  fortune-hunter  and  money- 
grubber,  who  estimates  everything  in  accordance  with 
its  real  or  fancied  usefulness  to  himself.  But  precisely 
because  he  places  his  personality  above  everything  else 


î 

Introduction.  xxxi 

he  is  unable  to  carry  out  the  plan  of  self-indulgence  he 
had  conceived  in  his  poverty  and  distress.  The  sight  of 
the  talisman  which  unmans  him  is  the  realization  of  the 
physical  effects  of  his  career  of  fierce  desire.  The  ex- 
cess of  his  passions,  the  intensit}7  of  his  greed,  has 
sapped  his  vitality,  and  at  the  moment  when  the 
wealth  for  which  he  has  striven  so  desperately  is  in  his 
hands,  the  tide  of  life  begins  to  ebb. 

He  isolates  himself,  seeks  to  protect  himself  against 
every  incitement  to  further  desire,  deliberately  adopts 
a  vegetative  existence,  and  finds  his  sole  remaining 
satisfaction  in  the  oft-tested  assurance  that  by  this 
means  he  has  arrested  the  shrinkage  of  the  talisman. 
But  in  a  struggle  so  complicated,  by  a  nature  so  de- 
praved, the  holding  of  a  stead}^  course  for  any  length 
of  time  is  impracticable.  The  dominant  egoism  of  his 
temperament  will  not  be  alwa}Ts  cool  and  calculating 
and  restrained.  Waves  of  imperious  desire  will  at  in- 
tervals rise  and  sweep  awa}'  the  most  prudent  resolu- 
tions when  the  only  object  of  action  is  self-gratification. 
In  one  of  these  periods  of  excitation  he  yields  to  what 
must  be  regarded  as  the  nearest  approach  to  real  love 
of  which  he  is  capable.  But  the  limits  of  the  purity  of 
this  passion  are  rigidly  drawn,  and  Balzac  has  marked 
them  plainly.  When  first  Eaphael  finds  Pauline  at  the 
opera,  he  is  drawn  to  her  by  a  sentiment  of  real  affec- 
tion. This  continues  to  influence  him  when  they  meet 
in  his  old  room  in  the  Hôtel  Saint-Quentin.  During 
this  period  the  talisman  does  not  shrink,  for  emotion 
of  the  higher  kind  does  not  exhaust  vitality,  but  rather 
recruits  it.  When,  however,  the  lovers  have  come  to- 
gether and  are  married,  Raphael's  passion  at  once  be- 


xxxii 


Introduction. 


comes  materialized,  and  he  is  made  to  learn  very  soon 
that  he  can  only  gratify  it  at  the  expense  of  his  life. 

With  this  discoveiy  the  frailty  of  his  love  for  Pauline 
is  disclosed.  The  old  terror  reclaims  the  mastery  over 
him.  Once  more  he  banishes  every  one  from  his  cham- 
ber, and  returns  to  the  dull  routine  of  vegetation.  Here 
Balzac  takes  the  opportunity  to  satirize  modern  science, 
in  the  scenes  in  which  Raphael  is  seeking  the  means  of 
destroying  the  fatal  talisman.  The  futile  attempts  of 
the  zoologist,  the  mechanician,  and  the  chemist  to  ex- 
plain, to  analyze,  and  to  make  away  with  the  magic 
skin,  though  reflecting  most  damagingly  upon  the  or- 
thodox classification  and  limitation  of  natural  laws,  do 
not  at  all  disturb  these  savants,  who  are  quite  unani- 
mous in  the  conclusion  that  if  the  facts  are  against 
them,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  facts.  In  a  subse- 
quent chapter  medicine  is  handled  in  the  same  spirit  of 
mordant  satire,  —  the  esoteric  object  of  the  author  being 
to  illustrate  the  manner  in  which  egoism  affects  even 
Science,  by  subordinating  the  reverence  for  Truth  to 
the  personal  pride  and  vanity  of  its  professors,  and 
thus  impelling  them  to  mask  systematic  charlatanism 
and  hypocris}T  under  social  conventions.  The  eminent 
physicians  called  in  consultation  over  Raphael's  myste- 
rious malady  care  nothing  for  the  patient,  and  little  for 
the  higher  aims  of  their  own  profession.  Doubtless  each 
would  be  glad  to  chronicle  a  cure  if  it  redounded  to  the 
credit  of  his  special  theory  ;  but  neither  is  generous 
enough  to  be  gratified  b}'  a  success  which  traverses  his 
own  views.  In  order  to  hoodwink  the  public  and  main- 
tain the  semblance  of  harmony  in  the  profession,  they 
affect  for  one  another's  opinions  a  respect  which  they 


Introduction. 


xxxiii 


are  far  from  feeling  ;  and  they  are  one  and  all  deaf  and 
blind  to  the  possibilities  of  phenomena  in  any  way 
transcending  the  narrow  limits  of  their  materialistic 
training.  It  is  to  be  observed,  also,  that  nothing  could 
be  more  modern  than  this  remarkable  consultation.  It 
might  have  been  held  last  year,  or  yesterday.  It  em- 
bodies the  spirit  of  the  whole  century,  and  symbolizes 
traits  of  the  present  civilization,  which  appear  to  deepen 
with  the  increasing  complexity  of  social  life. 

The  attempt  of  Raphael  to  get  rid  of  the  talisman  by 
force  or  craft,  to  annihilate  it  by  violence,  or  to  dis- 
solve it  by  chemical  reagents,  could  never  have  been 
really  hopeful  to  him,  though  he  tried  to  busy  himself 
with  the  fantasy.  He  knew,  as  must  every  victim  to 
the  prevailing  cult  of  egoism,  the  conditions  upon 
which  he  held  his  remnant  of  vitality.  He  knew  — 
for  had  not  the  old  bric-a-brac  dealer  told  him?  — 
that  whoso  signed  the  mystic  compact,  by  accepting 
possession  of  the  talisman,  was  thereby  committed  to 
the  end,  and  could  no  more  draw  back  than  could  a 
man  who,  having  thrown  himself  from  the  summit  of 
the  Vendôme  column,  should  repent  and  try  to  return 
to  safety.  But  the  desire  for  survival  was  so  strong 
that  he  could  not  reconcile  himself  to  the  facts  ;  and  he 
was,  as  it  were,  compelled  to  try  every  avenue  which 
seemed  by  any  play  of  fancy  to  suggest  the  possibility 
of  escape.  When  every  essay  has  failed,  he  takes  the 
advice  of  his  medical  men,  and,  coolty  deserting  Pau- 
line without  even  a  farewell  word,  journeys  to  a  fash- 
ionable spa.  His  life  there  is  a  development  of  his 
secluded  existence  in  his  own  hotel.  The  luxury  of  his 
establishment  excites  the  admiration  and  envy  of  the 

c 


xxxiv 


Introduction. 


other  guests,  and  his  absorption  in  himself  arouses  their 
dislike  and  finally  their  hatred. 

This  is  a  very  deep  study  of  society.  If,  on  the  one 
hand,  selfishness  is  the  mainspring  of  the  social  organi- 
zation, experience  has  proved  that,  on  the  other  hand, 
mutual  sacrifices  are  necessary  to  the  due  gratification 
and  permanent  maintenance  of  the  pride  of  personality. 
Society  flatters  that  it  may  be  flattered  ;  cajoles  that  it 
may  be  cajoled  ;  caresses  that  it  may  be  caressed  ;  pre- 
tends to  think  well  of  its  members  that  they  may  pre- 
tend to  think  well  of  it.  He  who,  while  under  the 
social  obligations  which  are  inseparable  from  the  pos- 
session of  wealth,  repudiates  his  social  duties,  despises 
and  neglects  all  the  conventional  hypocrisies  by  which 
it  is  sought  to  cloak  the  pervading  egoism,  and  insists 
on  parading  his  own  selfishness,  naturally  and  brutally, 
mortally  wounds  this  artificial  organism,  and  inevitably 
makes  of  it  an  active  and  implacable  enemy.  He  is  a 
traitor  to  the  unwritten  constitution  of  modern  civili- 
zation. He  is  an  anarchist,  whose  baleful  example 
threatens  the  whole  fabric  of  deceit,  and  pretence,  and 
sham  chivalry,  and  make-believe  refinement,  and  dis- 
guised greed  and  lust  and  self-seeking.  He  is  the 
more  disgusting  and  hateful  in  that  he  shows  society 
itself  as  it  feels  and  knows  it  really  is  ;  and  since  there 
remains  a  somewhat  of  good  in  things  evil,  since  in  the 
most  corrupt  periods  vice  pa}Ts  to  virtue  the  homage  of 
hypocrisy,  such  a  disclosure  cannot  but  be  humiliating 
and  exasperating. 

Therefore  the  society  of  the  spa  is  leagued  against 
him  ;  and  when  an  attempt  to  compass  his  removal  by 
persuasion  has  failed,  a  quarrel  is  fastened  upon  him, 


Introduction. 


XXXV 


and  he  is  entangled  in  a  duel.  Here  again  his  domi- 
nant egoism  controls  him  against  his  plainest  interests. 
He  cannot  protect  himself  in  the  duel  save  b}^  exerting 
his  will-power,  and  thus  causing  the  magic  skin  to 
shrink  ;  but  his  pride  has  been  stung,  and  he  is  re- 
solved to  give  his  enemies  a  sharp  lesson,  even  though 
he  suffers  for  it  himself.  The  same  ignoble  impulse 
proves  too  strong  for  his  prudence  when,  after  killing 
his  antagonist,  he  comes,  while  travelling,  to  a  village 
where  the  people  are  enjoying  a  holiday.  Soured  by 
the  spectacle  of  all  this  life  and  jollity,  he  yields  to  the 
suggestion  of  his  misanthrop}^  and  squanders  another 
portion  of  his  fast-fading  vitality  in  calling  down  a  sud- 
den storm  on  the  heads  of  the  merry-makers.  After 
the  duel  he  makes  one  more  desperate  effort  to  recover 
his  fleeting  forces.  Society  has  expelled  him,  and  con- 
tact with  it  only  irritates  and  exhausts  him.  He  will 
now  essay,  in  a  modified  form,  the  prescription  which 
Mephistopheles  offered  to  Faust  in  the  Witch's  Kitchen, 
as  the  alternative  with  the  hag's  elixir.  There  is,  sa}Ts 
Mephistopheles,  another  way  of  attaining  old  age  :  — 

"  Begieb  dich  gleich  hinaus  aufs  Feld, 
Fang'  an  zu  hacken  und  zu  graben, 
Erhalte  dich  und  deinen  Sinn 
In  einem  ganz  beschrankten  Kreise, 
Ernahre  dich  mit  ungemischter  Speise, 
Leb'  mit  dem  Vieh  als  Vieh,  — " 

and  thus  a  term  of  eighty  years  may  be  secured.  Ra- 
phael throws  himself  upon  the  bosom  of  Nature,  and 
endeavors  to  lead  a  purely  natural  life,  among  the  sim- 
plest peasants,  and  in  the  most  invigorating  mountain 


xxxvi 


Introduction. 


air.  For  a  short  time  he  imagines  that  the  experiment 
will  succeed  ;  but  it  is  not  of  bodily  ailments  he  is 
dying,  and  the  consuming  power  of  undisciplined  desire 
—  the  effects  of  mental  excess  —  have  proceeded  too  far 
in  the  work  of  disorganization  for  any  remedy  attain- 
able by  him.  The  constant  sight  of  healthy  animal  life 
about  him  tears  his  selfish  soul  with  anguish,  and  gen- 
erates longings  which,  despite  every  effort  at  self- 
restraint,  are  registered  in  the  inexorable  contractions 
of  the  talisman. 

At  last  he  realizes  the  futility  of  his  career  and  sul- 
lenly, despairingly,  returns  to  Paris  to  face  death.  The 
last  brief  scene  in  this  powerful  allegory  is  at  once  the 
most  daring  and  significant  in  the  book.  It  expresses 
the  utter  degradation  of  the  victim  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion. It  is  the  type  of  which  the  Baron  Hulot,  in  "La 
Cousine  Bette  "  is  the  individualization.  A  career  of 
self-indulgence  and  self-seeking  has  extinguished  the 
last  spark  of  intellectuality  in  Raphael.  There  remain 
in  his  moribund  organism  only  the  animal  desires.  The 
habit  and  instinct  of  self-preservation  have  caused  him 
to  drive  the  loving,  faithful  Pauline  from  his  side. 
When,  at  the  very  close,  she  makes  her  way  to  him, 
and  he  perceives  that  the  end  is  at  hand,  his  last  feeble 
volitional  impulse  is  toward  the  gratification  of  the 
lowest  form  of  passion,  at  no  matter  what  expense  ;  and 
even  in  the  act  of  dying  this  brutal  impulse  is  crossed 
by  another  not  less  base,  which  finds  expression  in  a 
futile  attempt  to  tear  his  mistress  with  his  teeth.  He 
desires  her  as  a  Satyr  might  ;  yet  at  the  same  supreme 
moment  his  expiring  egoism  resents  in  her  the  exciting 
cause  of  the  catastrophe.   This  is  the  enforcement  of  the 


Introduction. 


xxxvii 


author's  axiom  that  excess  in  Will  and  Thought  operates 
as  a  dissolvent  ;  that  it  tends  to  destroy  both  the  society 
and  the  individual  that  indulge  it  ;  that  it  is  suicidal,  and 
kills  not  only  the  physical,  but  the  psychical  elements  in 
man.  But  this  is  not  the  whole  of  the  moral.  Excess 
in  all  things,  Balzac  holds,  is  the  distinctive  character- 
istic of  modern  civilization,  but  excess  in  the  pursuit  of 
purely  selfish  aims  is  of  all  kinds  the  most  deadly  and 
disorganizing.  And  the  course  of  modern  society  is  a 
vicious  circle  ;  it  enforces  and  it  suffers  from  the  pre- 
vailing cult  of  Egoism.  All  its  highest  prizes  are  re- 
served for  the  victors  in  life's  battle,  —  those,  in  other 
words,  whose  greed  and  unscrupulousness  and  dogged 
materialism  enable  them  to  trample  upon  and  plunder 
weaker  competitors  ;  but  through  this  apotheosis  of 
ignoble  qualities  and  capacities  society  dooms  itself  to 
perpetual  Philistinism,  strife,  and  vulgarity.  Its  stan- 
dards are  so  low  that  there  can  be  no  honor  nor  satisfac- 
tion in  attaining  to  them.  Its  favorite  pursuits  are  so 
frivolous  as  to  put  a  premium  upon  imbecility  and  to 
handicap  merit  and  capacity.  The  excess  which  it  fos- 
ters, consequently,  is  never  in  the  direction  of  true 
aspiration,  but  always  earthly,  sensual,  devilish,  — 
such  in  fact  as  is  typified  here  in  the  life  and  death  of 
Raphael  de  Valentin,  the  wretched  possessor  of  the 
magic  skin. 

In  his  Epilogue  Balzac  has  dealt  with  Pauline  so 
mystically  as  to  confound  the  critics,  who  have  guessed 
at  the  intended  meaning  as  variously  as  in  the  case  of  the 
Second  Part  of  Goethe's  "  Faust."  Yet  there  is  not  any 
deep  mystery  in  the  matter.  Pauline  Gandin  typifies  true 
and  faithful  womanly  love.    She  is  a  foil,  both  exoteri- 


xxxviii 


Introduction. 


ically  and  esoterically,  to  the  heartless,  cold-blooded 
Fedora.  She  is  a  foil  also  to  the  selfishness  of  Raphael. 
She  stands  for  all  the  tenderest  emotions  and  qualities 
of  self- abnegating  love.  From  the  first  she  is  seen  sac- 
rificing herself  to  Raphael.  When  he  inhabits  the  attic 
in  the  Hôtel  Saint-Quentin,  and  congratulates  himself 
upon  the  success  of  his  parsimonious  budget,  he  is 
really  Pauline's  pensioner,  and  would  starve  to  death 
but  for  the  devoted  industry  and  delicate  self-sacrifice 
of  this  amiable  creature.  There  is  a  terrible  stroke  of 
irony,  drawn  straight  from  human  experience,  more- 
over, in  the  complacency  with  which  Raphael  accepts 
this  silent  aid  ;  in  the  transparent  form  of  self-deception 
indulged  by  him  when  Pauline  pretends  to  have  found 
some  money  while  sweeping  his  room.  He  tries  to  per- 
suade himself  that  the  story  is  credible,  but  he  knows 
well  enough  where  the  coins  so  opportunely  discovered 
come  from,  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  he  has  his 
suspicions  also  regarding  the  unfailing  supplies  of  clean 
linen  and  bread  and  milk.  He  affects  indeed  to  repay 
her  with  instruction,  but  it  is  clear  that  during  his  tuto- 
rial experience  the  chief  benefit  remains  with  him. 

She,  however,  has  no  reservations  for  the  man  she 
loves.  It  is  enough  happiness  for  such  a  nature  to  feel 
that  it  is  doing  good  to  the  object  of  its  affection.  Pau- 
line knows  well  that  Raphael  is  paying  his  addresses  to 
the  Countess  Fedora.  He,  with  characteristic  masculine 
obtuseness,  makes  her  his  confidant,  and  wrings  her 
gentle  bosom  with  the  eager  recapitulation  of  his  hopes 
and  longings.  Through  all  this  she  never  betrays 
jealousy  or  petulance.  He,  she  thinks,  is  so  good,  so 
great,  so  far  above  her,  that  it  is  altogether  natural  for 


Introduction. 


xxxix 


him  to  adore  fine  ladies,  women  of  title  and  position, 
wealthy  widows.  Nor  is  there  the  least  self-conscious- 
ness about  Pauline.  She  is  sometimes  depressed,  but 
she  does  not  appear  to  ask  herself  why.  In  Raphael's 
presence  she  is  simply,  naturally  happy.  She  takes 
what  the  gods  provide,  humbly,  thankfully,  and  whether 
she  is  thought  little  or  much  of  she  is  ready  to  make  any 
and  every  renunciation  in  her  power  for  her  friend. 
When  they  come  together  she  is  the  happiest  of  the 
happy,  and  lives  only  for  her  Raphael.  When  he  so 
harshly  repels  her,  moved  by  his  selfish  fears  and  the 
shrinking  of  the  talisman,  no  complaint  is  heard  from 
her  ;  and  after  he  returns  from  his  cruel  desertion  she 
utters  her  grief  only  in  the  touching  little  letter  which 
he  finds  awaiting  him.  He  has  never  confided  his  secret 
to  her.  Had  he  done  so  she  would  have  protected  him 
far  more  effectually  than  he  could  protect  himself.  But 
when  in  the  closing  scene  she  realizes  the  truth  her  first 
impulse  is  to  kill  herself,  to  the  end  that  a  cause  of  dan- 
ger to  him  —  as  she  thinks  —  may  be  removed.  Pauline 
is  a  beautiful  ideal,  and  may  further  be  regarded  as 
symbolizing  the  superior  purity  and  elevation  of  true 
womanly  love  as  contrasted  with  the  emotions  which 
fill  so  large  a  space  in  the  life  of  the  average  modern 
male  egoist.  She  is  not  indeed  what  would  be  called  a 
strong-minded  woman,  but  Balzac  never  could  perceive 
the  attraction  of  that  kind  of  character.  Like  most 
men  of  masterful  intellect,  he  believed  in  feminine  qual- 
ities especially,  and  rather  shrank  from  the  modern 
tendency  to  cultivation  of  masculine  capacities  and 
characteristics  in  women. 

Vast  as  was  Balzac's  performance,  it  could  not  keep 


xl 


Introduction. 


pace  with  the  prodigious  fecundity  of  his  mind.  Thus 
while  he  had  always,  during  the  twenty  years  of  his 
labor  on  the  64  Comédie  Humaine/'  several  works  in 
hand  simultaneously,  at  the  same  time  he  had  as  con- 
stantly in  view  several  more  which  he  found  no  time  to 
write.  The  plan  of  the  "  Comédie  Humaine"  com- 
prised a  series  to  be  called  "Analytical  Studies, "  but 
only  the  "  Physiology  of  Marriage,"  and  some  short 
pieces  belonging  to  this  division,  were  published.  It 
was  his  intention  to  follow  up  "  La  Peau  de  Chagrin," 
with  a  novel  to  be  entitled  '  4  L'Histoire  de  la  Succes- 
sion du  Marquis  de  Carabas."  This  work  was  an- 
nounced by  M.  Ph.  Chasles  in  his  introduction  to 
"  La  Peau  de  Chagrin,"  and  by  M.  Félix  Davin,  in  his 
introduction  to  the  "Philosophical  Studies,"  and  all 
that  is  known  of  its  subject  is  derived  from  what  is 
there  said,  which  is  to  the  effect  that  it  was  intended  to 
show  society  at  large  a  prey  to  the  same  impotence 
which  devours  Raphael  in  "La  Peau  de  Chagrin,"  and 
agonizing  under  the  same  real  wretchedness,  springing 
from  the  same  fierceness  of  desire,  and  disguised  by  the 
same  external  brilliancy,  which  in  the  extant  work  are 
illustrated  in  their  relation  to  individualism.  It  was 
the  purpose  of  Balzac,  first,  to  describe  life  as  it  is,  in 
all  its  phases,  as  affected  by  modern  civilization  ;  hav- 
ing accomplished  this  he  proposed  tracing  effects  to 
their  causes  ;  and  finally  he  intended  to  point  out,  as 
far  as  possible,  the  social  and  other  tendencies  which, 
resisting  the  disorganizing  influences  of  the  times,  con- 
stitute the  justification  for  hope  concerning  the  future. 
This  explanation  should  be  kept  in  mind  by  those  who 
may  be  inclined  to  regard  the  philosophy  of  "The  Magic 


Introduction. 


xli 


Skin  "  as  pessimistic.  In  fact  when  the  work  appeared 
some  of  Balzac's  friends  raised  that  very  objection.  To 
one  of  them,  the  Duchess  de  Castries,  he  replied:  "I 
shall  defend  myself  against  your  charges  by  one  word  : 
this  work  is  not  intended  to  remain  alone  ;  it  contains 
the  premises  of  a  work  which  I  shall  be  proud  to  have 
attempted,  even  if  I  fail  in  the  enterprise."  He  then  re- 
fers to  the  introduction  written  by  M.  Philarète  Chasles 
to  "La  Peau  de  Chagrin,"  and  says,  "You  will  see 
by  that,  that  if  sometimes  I  destroy,  I  also  endeavor 
sometimes  to  reconstruct."  What  M.  Chasles  wrote  on 
the  subject  is  as  follows:  "Faith  and  Love  escaping 
from  men  given  over  to  intellectual  culture  ;  Faith  and 
Love  exiling  themselves  to  leave  all  these  proud  souls 
in  a  measureless  desert  of  egoism,  penned  up  in  their 
intense  personality,  —  such  is  the  goal  of  M.  du  Balzac's 
stories."  This  purpose  was  defeated  by  the  untimely 
death  of  the  great  writer;  but  in  a  few  minor  pieces 
such  as  that  entitled  "Jesus  Christ  in  Flanders,"  he 
has  outlined  his  ideas  concerning  the  renaissance  of 
faith  and  moral  purity  his  observation  led  him  to 
look  for  in  the  social  stratum  from  which  Christianity 
arose. 

It  is  quite  possible  to  read  "  The  Magic  Skin,"  simply 
as  a  story,  without  paying  any  attention  to  the  allegory. 
This  no  doubt  is  the  aspect  in  which  it  was  regarded 
when  it  was  first  published,  not  only  by  the  public,  but 
by  the  majority  of  the  critics.  Balzac  indeed  com- 
plained in  his  correspondence,  that  his  types  had  not 
been  recognized  ;  and  this  is  probable,  and  even  natural. 
For  Balzac  so  filled  all  his  creations  with  that  white 
heat  of  imaginative  energy  which  inspired  him,  that  the 


xlii 


Introduction. 


vitalism  and  the  naturalness  of  his  characters  give 
them  an  individualism,  a  humanity,  altogether  unlike 
the  marionettes  which  figure  in  ordinary  allegories. 
"The  Magic  Skin"  may  consequently  be  looked  upon 
as  merely  a  clever  orientalized  tale,  the  machinery  of 
which  is  distinguished  by  peculiar  skill  of  invention 
and  deftness  of  manipulation.  Perhaps  it  is  only  those 
who  know  the  "Comédie  Humaine"  as  a  whole,  and 
have  followed  the  growing  purposes  of  the  author,  who 
will  thoroughly  appreciate  this  book.  Yet  inasmuch  as 
there  certainty  is  a  marked  current  of  tendency  at  the 
present  time  toward  serious  views  of  society,  civiliza- 
tion, and  human  relations  generally,  while  there  exists 
a  no  less  distinct  reaction  against  dogmatic  materialism 
and  the  arrogant  presumption  of  a  science  which  is  too 
often  sciolism,  it  has  been  thought  worth  while  to 
offer  to  such  as  may  care  to  use  it  the  means  of  pene- 
trating and  apprehending  the  author's  symbolism  and 
his  esoteric  meaning.  It  must,  however,  be  said  that 
in  uThe  Magic  Skin"  we  are  but  on  the  threshold  of 
Balzac's  philosophy.  What  has  been  set  down  here  is 
indeed  necessary  to  a  full  understanding  of  the  present 
volume,  but  the  principles  here  applied  constitute  only 
a  part  of  a  system,  and  to  grasp  that  system  as  a  whole 
"Louis  Lambert"  and  "Seraphita"  will  have  to  be 
read  and  studied.  In  the  former  of  these  remarkable 
works  will  be  found  a  body  of  thought  embracing  many 
ideas  and  speculations  interest  in  which  has  been 
revived  recently.  That  theory  of  the  Will  which  is 
referred  to  so  often  in  "The  Magic  Skin,'  is  in 
"Louis  Lambert"  fully  expounded.  It  is  true  that 
the  same  theory  really  underlies  almost  the  whole  of 


Introduction. 


xliii 


the  "Comédie  Humaine,"  but  it  is  in  this  triad  of 
works  that  it  is  elaborated,  and  each  of  them  is  there- 
fore necessary  to  the  comprehension  of  the  others, 
though,  regarded  merely  as  tales,  each  may  be  read  by 
itself. 

George  Frederic  Parsons. 


THE  MAGIC  SKIN. 


Tristram  Shandy,  Chap.  CCXXXIII. 
PAET  I. 
THE  TALISMAN. 

Toward  the  close .  of  October  last,  a  young  man 
entered  the  Palais-Royal,  at  the  hour  when  the  gam- 
bling-houses opened  in  conformity  with  the  law,  which 
protects  a  passion  essentially  taxable.  Without  much 
hesitation,  he  passed  up  the  staircase  of  the  hell  which 
went  by  the  name  of  "Number  36. " 

"  Monsieur,  your  hat,  if  you  please,"  called  out  in  a 
sharp,  remonstrative  voice,  a  pallid  old  man,  who  was 
squatting  in  a  dark  corner  behind  a  railing,  and  who 
now  rose  suddenly,  showing  a  face  of  an  ignoble  type. 

When  you  enter  a  gambling-house  the  law  begins  by 
depriving  you  of  your  hat.  Is  that  meant  as  an  evan- 
gelical and  ghostly  parable?  May  it  not  rather  be 
a  means  of  clinching  an  infernal  bargain  by  exacting 
something  of  you  as  a  pledge  ?  Can  it  be  intended  to 
force  you  into  a  respectful  attitude  toward  those  who 
win  your  money?  Do  the  police,  lurking  near  every 
social  sink-hole,  insist  on  knowing  the  very  name  of 
your  hatter,  or  your  own  if  you  have  written  it  on  the 


The  Magic  Skin. 


lining?  Is  it  to  take  the  measure  of  your  skull  and 
evolve  some  instructive  statistics  on  the  cerebral  ca- 
pacity of  gamblers  ?  On  this  subject  the  government  is 
impenetrably  silent.  But  you  must  plainly  understand 
that  no  sooner  have  you  made  a  step  toward  the  green 
table,  than  your  hat  no  more  belongs  to  you  than  you 
belong  to  yourself;  you  are  a  stake,  —  you,  your  money, 
your  hat,  your  cane,  your  cloak.  When  you  depart  from 
that  hell,  Play  will  show  you,  by  a  malevolent  epigram 
in  action,  that  it  still  leaves  you  something,  by  returning 
your  hat.  We  may  remark  that  if  it  is  a  new  one,  you 
will  learn  to  your  cost  that  in  future  you  must  wear 
gamblers'  clothes. 

The  astonishment  of  the  young  man  on  receiving  a 
numbered  ticket  in  exchange  for  his  hat,  whose  edges 
were  fortunately  a  good  deal  rubbed,  proved  that  his 
soul  was  still  innocent  ;  and  the  little  old  man,  who  hac* 
no  doubt  wallowed  from  his  youth  up  among  the  seeth* 
ing  pleasures  of  a  gambling-house,  threw  him  a  dull, 
bleak  glance,  in  wrhich  a  philosopher  would  have  seen 
all  the  horrors  of  hospitals,  the  vagrant  homelessness 
of  ruined  men,  police  reports  of  suicides,  condemnations 
to  hard  labor  for  life,  transportation  to  penal  colonies. 
This  man,  whose  long,  white  face  had  surely  no  other 
nourishment  than  the  gelatinous  soups  of  Arcet,  was 
the  pale  image  of  Passion  brought  to  its  natural  end. 
In  his  wrinkles  lurked  the  traces  of  old  tortures.  He 
must  have  played  away  his  meagre  salary  on  the  very 
day  he  received  it.  Like  an  old  hack  horse  on  whom 
the  whip  makes  no  impression,  nothing  made  him  shud- 
der ;  the  smothered  groans  of  players  as  they  took 
their  hats  and  went  out  ruined,  their  mute  impreca- 


The  Magic  Skin. 


3 


tions,  their  dazed  eyes,  left  him  unmoved.  He  was 
Play  incarnate.  If  the  you  n g  man  had  stopped  to 
consider  this  pitiable  Cerberus,  perhaps  he  might  have 
said  to  himself,  ' c  Nothing  is  left  in  that  heart  but  a  game 
of  cards  !  "  He  did  not  listen  to  this  living  warning, 
placed  there,  no  doubt,  by  Providence,  who  has  sta- 
tioned Disgust  at  the  door  of  every  evil  haunt.  He 
resolutely  entered  a  room  where  the  chink  of  gold  was 
exercising  its  dazzling  fascination  over  the  eager  lust 
of  covetousness.  In  all  probability  the  young  man  was 
driven  to  this  place  by  that  most  logical  of  Jean- Jacques 
Kousseau's  sayings:  u  Yes,  I  can  conceive  of  a  man 
rushing  to  the  gambling-table,  but  not  until  he  sees, 
between  himself  and  death,  only  his  last  penny." 

The  gambling-houses  have  only  a  vulgar  poetry  about 
them,  but  its  effect  is  as  certain  as  that  of  a  blood- 
thirst}'  drama.  The  halls  are  lined  with  spectators  and 
players,  indigent  old  men  who  drag  themselves  to  the 
place  for  warmth,  gamblers  with  convulsed  faces,  bear- 
ing marks  of  orgies  begun  in  wine  and  ready  to  ter- 
minate in  the  Seine.  But,  though  passion  abounds, 
the  crowd  of  actors  and  spectators  prevent  an  observer 
from  deliberately  considering,  face  to  face,  the  demon 
of  play.  The  scene  goes  on  like  a  concerted  piece  in 
which  the  whole  troupe  takes  part,  every  instrument  of 
the  orchestra  modulating  its  assigned  passage.  You 
will  see  there  many  honorable  men  who  seek  distraction 
of  mind  and  pay  for  it  as  the}'  would  for  a  seat  at  the 
theatre,  or  a  luxurious  dinner,  or  as  they  go  to  some 
garret-room  and  buy  at  a  base  price  bitter  regrets  that 
last  them  three  months.  Which  of  us  can  fully  under- 
stand the  delirium  and  the  vigor  in  a  man's  soul,  as  he 


4 


The  Magic  Shin. 


waits  for  the  opening  of  these  hells.  Between  the  gam- 
bler in  the  morning  and  the  gambler  at  night,  there  is 
all  the  difference  that  exists  between  the  indifferent 
husband  and  the  lover  languishing  beneath  the  win- 
dows of  his  love.  In  the  morning  come  palpitating 
passion,  and  want  in  all  its  bare-faced  horror.  It  is 
only  in  the  evening  that  you  recognize  the  true  gam- 
bler, the  gambler  who  has  neither  eaten,  nor  slept,  nor 
lived,  nor  thought,  so  powerfully  is  he  scourged  by  the 
whip  of  his  vice,  so  deeply  has  the  rot  of  a  mania  eaten 
into  his  being.  At  that  accursed  hour  you  ma}'  encoun- 
ter eyes  whose  calmness  is  terrifying,  faces  that  mag- 
netize you,  glances  which  seem  to  lift  the  cards  and 
tear  the  luck  out  of  them. 

Gambling-houses  never  rise  to  any  show  of  dignity, 
except  at  the  hour  when  they  nightly  open.  Spain  may 
have  its  bull-fights,  Rome  its  gladiators,  but  Paris 
boasts  of  her  Palais-Royal,  whose  rattling  balls  bring 
streams  of  blood  for  the  pleasure  of  spectators,  though 
the  floors  are  never  slippery  with  it.  Cast  a  furtive 
glance  into  the  arena  ;  enter  —  what  barrenness  !  The 
walls,  covered  with  greasy  paper  to  a  man's  height, 
offer  nothing  on  which  the  eye  can  rest  intelligently, 
not  so  much  as  a  nail  to  facilitate  suicide.  The  floor 
is  worn  and  dirty.  An  oblong  table  occupies  the 
middle  of  the  room.  The  plainness  of  the  deal  chairs, 
closely  set  around  the  green  cloth  now  worn  threadbare 
by  the  raking  in  of  gold,  shows  a  curious  indiffer- 
ence to  luxury  in  men  who  come  here  to  perish  in 
the  quest  for  it.  This  human  antithesis  can  be  seen 
wherever  the  soul  reacts  powerfully  on  itself.  The 
lover  desires  to  put  his  mistress  on  silken  cushions,  and 


The  Magic  Skin. 


5 


drape  her  in  the  soft  tissues  of  Orient,  yet  for  the  most 
part  he  possesses  her  in  a  garret.  The  ambitious  man 
dreams  of  the  pinnacles  of  power,  all  the  while  abasing 
himself  in  the  mud  of  servility.  The  merchant  vege- 
tates in  a  damp,  unhealthy  back-shop,  and  builds  a 
splendid  mansion  from  which  his  son,  taking  prema- 
ture possession,  is  driven  by  fraternal  litigation.  To 
sum  up  all  in  one  image,  does  there  exist  anything 
more  displeasing  to  the  mind  than  a  house  of  pleasure  ? 
Strange  problem  !  Man,  always  in  opposition  to  him- 
self, always  cheating  his  hopes  by  his  present  woes, 
and  his  woes  by  a  future  that  does  not  belong  to  him, 
puts  upon  every  action  of  his  life  the  impress  of  incon- 
sistency and  weakness.  Here  below,  nothing  appears 
to  be  complete  but  misfortune. 

At  the  moment  when  the  young  man  entered  the 
room  a  few  players  had  already  assembled.  Three 
bald-headed  old  men  were  nonchalantly  sitting  round  the 
green  cloth  ;  their  faces,  like  plaster  casts,  impassible 
as  those  of  diplomatists,  duty  expressed  each  blunted, 
sated  soul,  each  heart,  long  since  incapable  of  throb- 
bing, even  when  its  owner  staked  the  marriage  jewels 
of  a  wife.  A  young  Italian  with  black  hair  and  an 
olive  skin  was  sitting  quietly  with  his  elbows  on  the 
table,  apparently  consulting  those  fatal  inward  presenti- 
ments which  continual^  cry  in  the  player's  ear,  "  Yes," 
"No."  His  passionate  Southern  head  seemed  injected 
with  gold  and  fire.  Seven  or  eight  spectators  standing 
near  were  ranged  in  line,  awaiting  scenes  which  the 
turns  of  the  wheel,  the  faces  of  the  players,  the  roll  of 
the  money,  and  the  scraping  of  the  rakes  were  prepar- 
ing for  thorn.    These  idlers  stood  there  silent,  motion- 


6 


The  Magic  Shin. 


less,  and  attentive,  like  the  populace  on  the  place  de 
Grève  when  the  headsman  drops  the  axe.  A  tall,  lean 
man  in  a  threadbare  coat  held  a  register  in  one  hand 
and  in  the  other  a  pin  to  mark  the  series  of  the  Eed  or 
the  Black.  Like  a  modern  Tantalus,  he  was  one  of  those 
men  who  live  on  the  verge  of  all  the  enjoyments  of  their 
epoch,  —  a  miser  without  a  hoard  playing  an  imaginary 
stake,  a  species  of  reasoning  fool  who  consoles  his 
misery  by  cherishing  a  chimera,  who  deals  with  vice 
and  danger  as  a  young  priest  with  the  Eucharist  when 
he  says  his  trial  Mass. 

Sitting  opposite  to  the  bank  were  two  or  three  of  those 
shrewd  speculators,  experts  in  games  of  chance,  who, 
like  old  convicts  no  longer  afraid  of  the  galleys,  were 
there  to  risk  three  stakes,  and  immediately  carry  away 
their  gains  ;  on  which,  no  doubt,  they  lived.  Two  wait- 
ers were  walking  nonchalantly  about  the  hall  with  their 
arms  crossed,  looking  out  eveiy  now  and  then  into  the 
garden  of  the  Palais-Eoyal,  as  if  to  show  their  impassive 
faces  for  a  species  of  sign  to  the  passers-by.  The  banker 
and  the  croupier  had  just  cast  upon  the  punters  that  ex- 
pressionless glance  which  stabs  a  gambler,  calling  out  in 
shrill  tones,  "  Make  your  play,"  when  the  young  man 
entered  the  room.  The  silence  became,  if  possible,  more 
intense  ;  all  heads  turned  with  curiosity  to  the  new- 
comer. Then  an  almost  unheard-of  thing  occurred  ; 
those  blunted  old  men,  the  stony  attendants,  the  specta- 
tors, even  the  fanatical  Italian,  experienced,  as  they 
caught  sight  of  the  stranger,  a  feeling  of  nameless 
terror.  A  man  must  indeed  be  very  unfortunate  to 
obtain  pity,  very  feeble  to  excite  sympathy,  or  very 
sinister  in  appearance  to  cause  a  shudder  in  such  souls 


The  Magic  Skin. 


7 


as  these,  in  a  hell  where  sufferings  are  hushed,  where 
misery  is  gay.  despair  decent.  Yes,  there  were  all  such 
elements  in  the  strange  sensation  which  stirred  those 
hearts  of  ice  as  the  young  man  entered.  Executioners 
have  been  known  to  weep  over  the  virgin  heads  they 
were  forced  to  cut  off  at  a  signal  of  the  Revolution. 

The  players  could  read  at  a  glance  in  the  face  of  the 
new-comer  the  presence  of  some  awful  mystery  ;  his 
youthful  features  were  stamped  with  despondency  ;  his 
eye  proclaimed  the  balking  of  efforts,  the  betrayal  of  a 
thousand  hopes  ;  the  dull  impassibility  of  suicide  seemed 
to  give  a  wan  and  sickly  pallor  to  his  brow  ;  a  bitter  smile 
drew  lines  around  the  corners  of  his  mouth  ;  the  whole 
countenance  expressed  a  hopelessness  which  was  terrible 
to  see.  Some  secret  gift  of  genius  scintillated  in  the 
depths  of  those  veiled  eyes, — veiled  perhaps  by  the 
fatigues  of  pleasure.  Had  debauchery  stamped  its 
foul  signs  upon  that  noble  face,  once  pure  and  glow- 
ing but  now  degraded?  Doctors  would  doubtless  have 
attributed  the  yellow  circle  round  the  eyelids  and  the 
hectic  color  in  the  cheeks  to  lesions  of  the  stomach  or 
chest,  while  poets  would  have  recognized  in  those  same 
signs  the  ravages  of  science,  the  havoc  of  nights  spent 
in  study  by  the  midnight  oil.  But  a  passion  more  fatal 
than  disease,  a  disease  more  relentless  than  study  or 
genius  marred  that  youthful  head,  contracted  those 
vigorous  muscles,  and  wrung  the  heart  that  had  scarcely 
touched  the  surface  of  orgies,  or  study,  or  disease. 
As  the  convicts  at  the  galleys  hail  with  respect  some 
celebrated  criminal  when  he  arrives  among  them,  so 
these  human  demons,  experts  in  torture,  bowed  before 
an  amazing  grief,  an  awful  wound  they  had  the  eyes  to 


8 


The  Magic  Skin. 


see,  recognizing  one  of  their  own  princes  in  the  dignity 
of  his  mute  anguish  and  the  elegant  poverty  of  his 
garments.  He  wore  a  frock  coat  of  fashionable  ap- 
pearance, but  the  junction  of  his  cravat  with  his  waist- 
coat was  too  carefully  arranged  not  to  betray  the  fact 
that  he  had  no  shirt.  His  hands,  pretty  as  those  of  a 
woman,  were  of  doubtful  cleanliness,  and  for  the  last 
two  days  he  had  worn  no  gloves.  If  the  banker,  the 
croupier,  and  even  the  waiters  shuddered,  it  was  because 
the  charms  of  innocence  and  youth  still  lingered  along 
the  slender,  delicate  outlines,  and  among  the  fair  though 
scanty  locks  which  curled  naturally.  The  face  was 
that  of  a  man  of  twenty-five,  and  vice  seemed  to  be 
there  by  accident.  The  vigorous  life  of  youth  still 
fought  against  the  ravages  of  an  impotent  lubricity. 
Darkness  and  light,  annihilation  and  existence,  strug- 
gled together,  producing  a  result  that  was  full  of  grace 
and  full  of  horror.  The  young  man  came  into  the 
room  like  an  angel  without  a  halo  who  had  lost  his 
way.  For  an  instant  those  present,  professors  emeritus 
of  vice  and  infamy,  like  toothless  old  women  seized 
with  pity  for  a  young  girl  who  offers  herself  to  corrup- 
tion, were  on  the  verge  of  crying  out  to  him  :  '  '  Away  ! 
come  not  in  !" 

He,  however,  walked  straight  to  the  table  and  stood 
there,  throwing  upon  the  cloth,  without  a  moment's 
calculation,  a  piece  of  gold  which  he  held  in  his  hand 
and  which  rolled  upon  the  Black  ;  then,  like  all  strong 
souls  who  abhor  uncertainties,  he  looked  at  the  dealer 
with  an  eye  that  was  both  turbulent  and  calm.  The 
interest  excited  by  his  throw  became  so  great  that  the 
old  men  did  not  make  their  stakes  ;  but  the  Italian, 


Tlie  Magic  Skin. 


9 


seizing,  with  the  fanaticism  of  passion,  an  idea  which 
suddenly  possessed  him,  plumped  his  pile  of  gold  on 
the  Red  in  opposition  to  the  play  of  the  stranger.  The 
dealer  forgot  to  utter  the  usual  phrases  which  have 
come  by  long  usage  to  be  a  mere  hoarse  unintelligible 
cry  :  "  Make  your  play  ;  "  "  The  game  is  made  ;  "  "  Bets 
are  closed."  He  spread  out  the  cards,  and  seemed 
to  wish  good  luck  for  the  new-comer,  indifferent  as  he 
was  to  the  loss  or  gain  of  the  devotees  of  these  gloomy 
pleasures.  Each  spectator  knew  that  he  watched  a 
drama  and  saw  the  closing  scene  of  a  glorious  life  in 
the  fate  of  that  piece  of  gold  ;  their  eyes  gleamed 
as  they  fixed  them  on  the  fateful  cards  ;  yet,  in  spite 
of  the  attention  with  which  they  gazed  alternately  at 
the  player  and  at  the  bits  of  pasteboard,  not  a  sign  of 
emotion  was  seen  on  the  cold,  resigned  face  of  the 
young  man. 

"  Red  wins  !  "  said  the  dealer,  officially. 

A  species  of  strangled  rattle  came  from  the  Italian's 
chest  as  he  saw  the  bank-bills  which  the  banker  threw 
him  fall  one  by  one  in  a  little  heap.  As  for  the  young 
man  he  did  not  comprehend  his  ruin  until  the  rake 
stretched  out  to  gather  in  his  last  napoleon.  The  ivory 
instrument  struck  the  coin  with  a  sharp  sound,  and  it 
shot  with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow  into  the  mass  of  gold 
spread  out  before  the  banker.  The  young  man  gently 
closed  his  eyes,  his  lips  whitened  ;  but  soon  he  raised 
his  eyelids,  his  mouth  regained  its  coral  redness,  he  as- 
sumed the  manner  of  an  Englishman  who  thinks  that 
for  him  life  has  no  mysteries,  and  then  he  disappeared 
from  the  room  without  asking  consolation  by  sl  single 
harrowing  look,  such  as  despairing  gamblers  sometimes 


10 


The  Magic  Skin. 


cast  on  the  spectators  who  line  the  walls.  How  many 
events  were  compressed  into  the  space  of  that  second  ; 
how  many  things  into  that  single  throw  of  the  dice  ! 

"His  last  cartridge,  no  doubt/'  said  the  croupier, 
smiling,  after  a  moment's  silence,  during  which  he  held 
the  bit  of  gold  between  his  finger  and  thumb  and  showed 
to  those  about  him. 

4  '  He  is  half-crazy  now,  and  he  '11  be  found  in  the 
Seine,"  said  a  frequenter  of  the  place,  looking  round  at 
the  other  players,  who  all  knew  each  other. 

"Bah!"  said  one  of  the  waiters,  taking  a  pinch  of 
snuff. 

"What  a  pity  we  did  not  do  as  you  did,  monsieur," 
said  one  of  the  old  men  to  the  Italian. 

Everybody  looked  at  the  lucky  player,  whose  hands 
were  trembling  as  he  counted  his  bank-notes. 

"I  heard  a  voice,"  he  answered,  "  which  cried  in  my 
ear,  '  The  Red  wins  against  his  despair.'  " 

"  He  is  no  plajxr,"  said  the  banker  ;  "  otherwise  he 
would  have  divided  his  money  into  three  parts  and 
given  himself  other  chances." 

The  young  man  passed  out,  forgetting  to  ask  for  his 
hat  ;  but  the  old  mastiff  behind  the  rail,  having  noticed 
the  bad  condition  of  that  article,  gave  it  back  to  him 
without  a  word  ;  he  returned  the  ticket  mechanically 
and  passed  downstairs,  whistling  Di  tanti  palpiti  with 
so  feeble  a  breath  that  he  himself  scarcely  heard  the 
delicious  notes. 

Presently  he  found  himself  beneath  the  arcades  of  the 
Palais-Royal,  going  toward  the  rue  Saint-Honoré,  where 
he  took  a  turn  to  the  Tuileries  and  crossed  the  gardens 
with  hesitating  step.     He  walked  as  though  in  the 


The  Magic  Skin, 


11 


middle  of  a  desert,  —  elbowed  by  men  whom  he  did  not 
see  ;  hearing,  amid  the  noises  of  the  streets  and  popu- 
lace, but  one  sound,  the  call  to  death  ;  wrapt  in  a 
torpor  of  thought  like  that  of  criminals  as  the  tumbril 
takes  them  from  the  Palais  to  the  Grève,  to  the  scaffold 
reeking  with  the  blood  poured  out  upon  it  since  1793. 

There  is  something  grand  and  awful,  not  to  be  ex- 
pressed, in  suicide.  The  fall  of  multitudes  of  men  in- 
volves no  danger  ;  they  are  like  children  tumbling  from 
too  low  a  height  to  hurt  themselves.  But  when  a  great 
man  is  overthrown  he  comes  from  on  high,  he  has  risen 
to  the  skies  where  he  has  seen  some  inaccessible  para- 
dise. Implacable  are  the  tempests  which  force  him  to 
seek  peace  at  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol.  How  many  a 
young  soul  of  talent  withers  and  dies  in  a  garret  for 
want  of  a  friend,  for  want  of  a  consoling  woman  ;  in 
the  midst  of  millions  of  beings,  masses  of  men  surfeited 
with  gold  and  satiated  with  life  !  Viewed  thus,  suicide 
takes  on  gigantic  proportions.  Between  voluntary 
death  and  the  fecund  hopes  which  beckon  youth  in  the 
great  city,  God  alone  knows  what  conceptions,  what 
abandoned  ideals,  what  despairs  and  stifled  cries,  what 
useless  efforts,  what  aborted  masterpieces,  clash  to- 
gether. Each  suicide  is  a  poem  awful  with  melan- 
choly. Where  will  you  find  in  the  whole  ocean  of 
literature  a  book  whose  genius  can  equal  this  brief 
notice  in  the  corner  of  some  newspaper  :  — 

M  Yesterday,  at  four  o'clock,  a  young  woman  flung 
herself  into  the  Seine  from  the  pont  des  Arts." 

Before  this  laconic  Parisian  item  dramas  and  romances 
pale,  even  that  old  titlepage  of  the  u  glorious  King  of 
Kaërnavan  imprisoned  by  his  children,"  —  last  frag- 


12 


The  Magic  Skin. 


ment  of  a  lost  book,  the  mere  perusal  of  which  brought 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  Sterne,  who  himself  deserted  his 
wife  and  children. 

The  young  man  was  assailed  by  such  thoughts  as 
these,  which  floated  in  fragments  through  his  soul  like 
shreds  of  tattered  flags  across  a  battle-field.  If,  for  a 
moment,  he  laid  down  the  burden  of  his  mind  and  of 
his  memory,  and  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  flowers  whose 
heads  were  gently  swaying  in  the  breeze  as  it  reached 
them  through  the  shrubbery,  soon  a  convulsion  of  the 
life  which  still  fought  against  the  crushing  idea  of  sui- 
cide seized  upon  him  ;  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  and 
there  the  sombre  clouds,  the  heavy  atmosphere,  the 
gusts  of  wind  surcharged  with  sadness,  once  more  coun- 
selled him  to  die.  He  walked  on  toward  the  pont  Roj~al, 
recalling  the  last  acts  or  fancies  of  his  predecessors.  A 
smile  crossed  his  lips  as  he  thought  of  Lord  Castlereagh 
satisfying  the  humblest  of  wants  before  he  cut  his  throat, 
and  remembered  how  the  academician  Auger  looked  for 
his  snuff-box  and  took  a  pinch  on  his  way  to  death. 
He  was  analyzing  these  oddities  and  questioning  his 
own  feelings  when,  as  he  pressed  against  the  parapet  of 
the  bridge  to  make  wa}'  for  a  stout  costermonger,  the 
latter  slightly  soiled  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and  he  found 
himself  carefully  shaking  off  the  dust.  Reaching  the 
centre  arch  he  stood  still  and  looked  darkly  at  the 
water. 

"Bad  weather  to  drown  one's  self,"  said  an  old 
woman  in  rags,  with  a  laugh;  "isn't  it  dirty  and 
cold,  that  Seine?  99 

He  answered  with  a  natural  smile,  which  showed  the 
delirium  of  his  courage  ;  but  suddenly  he  shuddered  as 


The  Magic  Skin. 


13 


he  saw  afar  off  on  the  pont  des  Tuileries  the  shed  which 
bears  the  words  in  letters  a  foot  high,  44  Help  for  the 
Drowning."  Monsieur  Dacheux  appeared  to  him  armed 
with  philanthropy  and  those  virtuous  oars  which  crack 
the  skulls  of  drowning  persons,  if  by  chance  they  appear 
above  water  ;  he  saw  him  appealing  to  a  crowd,  send- 
ing for  a  doctor,  getting  ready  restoratives  ;  he  read  the 
mournful  reports  of  journalists  written  between  a  jovial 
dinner  and  the  smiles  of  a  ballet-girl  ;  he  heard  the  ring 
of  the  five-franc  pieces  which  the  prefect  of  the  Seine 
would  pay  to  the  boatmen  as  the  price  of  his  body.  Dead, 
he  was  worth  fifty  francs  ;  living,  he  was  only  a  man  of 
talent,  without  friends,  or  protectors,  or  straw  to  lie  on, 
or  a  nook  to  hide  in,  —  a  social  cipher,  useless  to  the 
State,  which  took  no  note  of  him.  Death  in  open  day 
struck  him  as  humiliating  ;  he  resolved  to  die  at  night 
and  bequeath  an  indistinguishable  carcass  to  that  social 
world  which  ignored  the  grandeur  of  his  life.  He 
therefore  continued  his  way  toward  the  quai  Voltaire, 
assuming,  unconsciously,  the  step  of  an  idler  seeking 
to  kill  time.  As  he  went  down  the  steps  which  end  the 
sidewalk  of  the  bridge  at  the  angle  of  the  qua}',  his  at- 
tention was  caught  by  the  rows  of  old  books  spread  out 
for  sale  upon  the  parapet,  and  he  came  near  bargain- 
ing for  some  of  them0  Then  he  smiled,  put  his  hands 
philosophically  into  his  pockets  and  was  about  to  re- 
sume his  nonchalant  manner,  which  seemed  like  a  mask 
of  cold  disdain,  when  to  his  amazement  he  heard  a  few 
coins  rattle,  with  a  sound  that  was  positively  weird,  at 
the  bottom  of  his  trousers-pocket.  A  smile  of  hope 
brightened  his  face,  slid  from  his  lips  to  every  feature, 
smoothed  his  brow,  and  made  his  eyes  and  his  gloomy 


14 


The  Magic  Skin. 


cheeks  glow  with  happiness.  This  sparkle  of  joy  was 
like  the  fire  which  runs  through  vestiges  of  paper  that 
are  already  consumed  by  the  flames  ;  but  the  face,  like 
the  ashes,  grew  black  once  more  as  the  young  man 
rapidly  drew  out  his  hand  and  saw  in  it  three  sous. 

uAh!  my  good  monsieur,  la  carita!  la  carita! 
Catarina  !  a  little  sou  to  hxxy  me  bread  !  " 

A  chimney-sweep,  whose  swollen  face  was  black  and 
his  body  brown  with  soot  and  his  clothing  ragged,  was 
holding  out  a  dirty  hand  to  clutch  the  man's  last  sous. 

Two  steps  off  a  poor  old  Savoyard,  sickly-  and  suffer- 
ing and  meanly  clothed  in  knitted  garments  full  of 
holes,  called  to  him  in  a  thick,  hoarse  voice  :  "Mon- 
sieur, give  me  what  you  will,  and  I  will  pray  God  for 
you."  But  when  the  young  man  looked  at  him  the  old 
man  was  silenced  and  said  no  more,  recognizing  per- 
haps on  that  funereal  face  the  signs  of  a  wretchedness 
more  bitter  than  his  own. 

' 6  La  carita  !  la  carita  !  " 

The  young  man  threwr  the  coppers  to  the  child  and 
the  old  pauper,  as  he  left  the  sidewalk  and  crossed 
toward  the  houses,  for  he  could  no  longer  endure  the 
harrowing  aspect  of  the  river. 

u  We  will  prajT  God  for  a  long  life  to  }'ou,"  cried  the 
two  beggars. 

As  he  paused  before  the  window  of  a  print-shop  the 
man  noticed  a  young  woman  getting  out  of  a  handsome 
equipage.  He  gazed  with  delight  at  the  charming  creat- 
ure, whose  fair  features  were  becomingly  framed  by  the 
satin  of  an  elegant  bonnet.  The  slender  waist  and  her 
pretty  motions  captivated  him .  Her  dress  caught  slightly 
on  the  carriage-step,  and  enabled  him  to  see  a  leg  whose 


The  Magic  Skin. 


15 


fine  outline  was  marked  by  a  white  and  well-drawn  stock- 
ing. The  young  woman  entered  the  shop  and  asked  the 
price  of  albums  and  looked  at  some  lithographs,  which 
she  bought  and  paid  for  with  gold  pieces  that  glittered 
and  rang  upon  the  counter.  The  young  man,  standing 
in  the  doorway,  apparently  occupied  by  looking  at  the 
prints  in  the  show-case,  exchanged  the  most  piercing 
glance  that  the  eyes  of  man  could  cast  against  an  in- 
different look  bestowed  on  all  alike  by  the  beautiful  un- 
known. The  glance  on  his  part  meant  a  farewell 
to  love,  to  Woman  ;  but  it  was  not  so  understood  ;  it 
did  not  stir  that  frivolous  female  heart,  nor  make  the 
charming  creature  blush,  or  even  lower  her  eyes. 
What  was  it  to  her?  —  a  little  admiration,  the  homage 
of  an  eye  which  made  her  think  to  herself  that  evening, 
64 1  looked  my  best  to-day."  The  young  man  turned 
hastily  to  another  pane  and  did  not  even  glance  round 
as  the  lady  passed  him  to  regain  her  carriage.  The 
horses  started  ;  that  last  image  of  elegance  and  luxury 
vanished  just  as  he  himself  was  about  to  vanish  from 
existence. 

He  walked  sadly  past  the  shop-windows,  looking 
without  interest  at  their  samples  of  merchandise.  When 
the  shops  came  to  an  end  he  studied  the  Louvre  in  the 
same  way,  the  Institute,  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame, 
those  of  the  Palais,  and  the  pont  des  Arts.  These 
buildings  seemed  to  wear  a  sad  countenance  beneath 
the  leaden  skies  whose  occasional  streaks  of  brightness 
gave  a  menacing  air  to  the  great  city,  which,  like  a 
pretty  woman,  is  subject  to  inexplicable  changes  from 
beauty  to  ugliness.  Thus  Nature  herself  conspired  to 
plunge  the  doomed  man  into  an  agonizing  ecstasy.  A 


16 


The  Magic  Skin. 


prey  to  that  malignant  force  whose  decomposing  action 
finds  an  agent  in  the  fluid  which  circulates  in  our 
nerves,  he  felt  his  organism  slowly  and  almost  insen- 
sibly reaching  the  phenomena  of  fluidity.  The  tortures 
of  his  agon}'  gave  him  motions  that  were  like  those  of 
the  sea  ;  buildings  and  men  appeared  to  him  through 
a  mist,  swaying  like  the  waves.  He  wanted  to  escape 
the  sharp  spasms  of  the  soul  which  these  reactions  of 
his  physical  nature  caused  him,  and  he  turned  into  the 
shop  of  an  antiquary,  meaning  to  find  employment  for 
his  senses,  and  await  the  darkness  in  bargaining  for 
works  of  art.  It  was,  in  truth,  an  effort  to  gain  cour- 
age ;  a  prayer  for  a  stimulant,  such  as  criminals  who 
doubt  their  nerve  on  the  scaffold  are  wont  to  make. 
Yet  the  sense  of  his  approaching  death  gave  the  }roung 
man,  for  a  moment,  the  assurance  of  a  duchess  who  has 
two  lovers  ;  and  he  entered  the  shop  with  an  eas}7  air, 
and  a  smile  on  his  lips  as  fixed  as  that  of  a  drunkard,  — 
in  truth,  was  he  not  drunk  with  life,  or  rather  with 
death?  He  soon  fell  back  into  his  vertigo,  however, 
and  continued  to  see  things  under  strange  colors,  sway- 
ing with  a  slight  motion,  whose  cause  lay  no  doubt  in 
the  irregular  circulation  of  his  blood,  which  boiled  at 
moments  like  the  foam  of  a  cascade  and  at  others  was 
still  and  dull  as  the  tepid  waters  of  a  pool. 

He  asked  to  be  allowed  to  look  through  the  estab- 
lishment and  see  if  there  were  any  curiosities  that 
tempted  him.  A  young  lad,  with  a  pair  of  fresh,  chubby 
cheeks,  and  reddish  hair  covered  with  a  sealskin  cap, 
consigned  the  care  of  the  front  shop  to  an  old  peasant 
woman,  a  species  of  female  Caliban,  who  was  on  her 
knees  cleaning  a  stove  whose  wondrous  handiwork  was 


The  Magic  Skin. 


17 


due  to  the  genius  of  Bernard  Palissy  ;  then  he  turned 
to  the  stranger  and  said,  with  a  careless  air  :  — 

"  Certainly,  monsieur,  look  about  you.  We  keep 
only  the  common  things  down  here,  but  if  you  will 
take  the  trouble  to  go  upstairs,  I  can  show  you  some 
fine  mummies  from  Cairo,  various  inlaid  potteries,  and 
a  few  carved  ebonies,  —  true  Renaissance,  just  come 
in,  of  exquisite  beauty." 

These  empty  commercial  phrases,  gabbled  over  by 
the  shop-boy,  were  to  the  stranger,  in  his  horrible  situ- 
ation, like  the  petty  annoyances  with  which  small  minds 
assail  a  man  of  genius.  Bearing  his  cross  to  the  end, 
he  seemed  to  listen  to  his  conductor,  answering  him  by 
gestures  or  monosyllables  ;  but  little  by  little  he  won 
the  right  to  be  silent  and  gave  himself  over  to  his  last 
meditations,  —  which  were  terrible.  He  was  a  poet  ; 
and  his  soul  had  now  come,  accidentally,  to  a  vast 
feeding-ground.  Here  he  was  to  see  in  advance  the 
bones  of  a  score  of  worlds. 

At  first  sight,  the  rooms  presented  only  confused 
pictures,  in  which  all  works  of  nature  or  of  art,  human 
or  divine,  jostled  each  other.  Crocodiles,  monkeys, 
stuffed  boas,  grinned  at  the  painted  glass  of  the  win- 
dows and  seemed  about  to  bite  the  busts,  seize  the 
lacquers,  or  spring  at  the  lustres.  A  Sevres  vase,  on 
which  Madame  Jacotot  had  painted  Napoleon,  stood 
beside  a  Sphinx  dedicated  to  Sesostris.  The  begin- 
nings of  the  world  and  the  events  of  yesterday  went 
arm-in-arm  with  grotesque  cordiality.  A  jack-spit  was 
tying  on  a  monstrance,  a  republican  sabre  on  a  hackbut 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  Madame  Du  Barry,  painted  in 
pastel  by  Latour,  with  a  star  on  her  head,  nude  and 

2 


18 


The  Magic  Skin. 


floating  on  cloud,  was  concupiscently  gazing  at  an 
Indian  hookah,  and  trying  to  discover  the  utility  of  the 
spirals  that  wound  toward  her.  Implements  of  death, 
daggers,  curious  pistols,  secret  weapons,  were  flung 
pell-mell  among  the  implements  of  life,  porcelain  soup- 
tureens,  Dresden  plates,  diaphanous  cups  from  China, 
antique  salt-cellars,  and  feudal  sweetmeat-boxes.  An 
ivory  vessel  under  full  sail  was  floating  on  the  back  of 
a  tortoise.  A  pneumatic  instrument  was  putting  out 
the  eye  of  the  Emperor  Augustus,  majestically  indiffer- 
ent. Several  portraits  of  French  magistrates  and  Dutch 
burgomasters,  as  impassible  now  as  they  once  were  in 
the  flesh,  looked  down  with  cold  and  ghastly  eyes  on 
this  chaos  of  antiquities.  All  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth  seemed  to  have  contributed  some  fragments  of 
their  science,  some  specimen  of  their  arts.  The  place 
was  a  kind  of  philosophical  compost-heap,  where  no 
element  was  wanting,  —  neither  the  pipe  of  the  savage, 
nor  the  green  and  gold  slipper  of  the  harem  ;  neither  the 
Moorish  yataghan,  nor  the  Tartar  idol.  The  tobacco- 
pouch  of  the  soldier  was  there  with  the  sacred  vases  of 
the  Church  and  the  plumes  of  a  dais.  These  wondrous 
scraps  of  many  worlds  were  subjected  to  still  further 
capricious  changes  by  a  number  of  fantastic  reflections 
from  the  strange  objects  about  them,  and  by  sudden 
contrasts  of  light  and  shade.  The  ear  fancied  it 
caught  the  sound  of  strangled  cries  ;  the  mind  seized 
the  thread  of  interrupted  dramas  ;  the  eye  perceived 
the  glimmer  of  half-smothered  lights.  A  layer  of  cling- 
ing dust  had  thrown  a  veil  over  all  these  objects,  whose 
multiform  angles  and  strange  sinuosities  produced  a 
wondrously  picturesque  effect. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


19 


At  first,  these  three  rooms,  teeming  with  civilization, 
with  deities,  religions,  masterpieces,  royalties,  and 
debaucheries,  with  wisdom  and  with  folly,  seemed  to 
the  young  man  like  a  mirror  of  many  facets,  each  of 
which  represented  a  world.  After  this  confused  and 
hazy  first  impression,  he  wished  to  select  his  enjoyment  ; 
but  by  dint  of  looking,  thinking,  and  dreaming,  he  was 
seized  with  an  internal  fever,  due  perhaps  to  the  hunger 
which  gnawed  his  entrails.  The  sight  of  so  many  na- 
tional and  individual  existences,  whose  proof  lay  in 
these  tangible  pledges  which  survived  them,  still  further 
benumbed  his  senses.  The  wish  that  had  sent  him  into 
the  shop  was  granted  ;  he  had  left  the  life  of  reality 
and  gone  upward  by  degrees  to  an  ideal  world  ;  he  had 
reached  the  enchanted  palaces  of  Ecstas3T  where  the 
universe  appeared  to  him  in  broken  visions,  lighted  b}r 
tongues  of  'fire,  — just  as  the  life  of  the  world  to  come 
had  flamed  before  the  eyes  of  Saint  John  in  Patmos. 

A  multitude  of  mourning  faces,  lovely  and  terrible, 
darkling  and  luminous,  distant  and  near,  rose  before 
him  in  masses,  in  myriads,  in  generations.  Egypt, 
rigid,  mysterious,  rose  from  her  sands  and  stood  there, 
represented  by  a  mummy  in  its  black  swathings  ;  or 
again,  it  was  Pharaoh,  burying  the  multitudes  to  build 
his  dynasty  a  tomb  ;  it  was  Moses,  the  Israelites,  and 
the  desert.  He  beheld,  as  in  a  vision,  the  solemn  world 
of  antiquity.  Here,  on  a  twisted  column,  stood  a  mar- 
ble statue,  fresh  and  smooth  and  sparkling  with  white- 
ness, which  told  him  of  the  voluptuous  nryths  of  Greece 
and  of  Ionia.  Ah  !  who  would  not  have  smiled,  as  he 
did,  to  see  upon  the  dark  red  ground  that  brown  girl 
dancing  with  jocund  step  before  Priapos  in  the  fine 


20 


The  Magic  Skin. 


clay  of  an  Etruscan  vase?  There,  opposite,  a  Latin 
queen  caressed  her  chimera  with  effusion.  The  fashions 
of  imperial  Rome  were  here  in  all  their  luxury,  —  the 
bath,  the  couch,  the  jewel-case  of  some  indolent  and 
dreamy  Julia  awaiting  her  Tibullus.  The  head  of 
Cicero,  armed  with  the  power  of  Arabian  talismans, 
evoked  memories  of  liberated  Rome  and  laid  open  the 
pages  of  Livy.  The  young  man  gazed  on  the  Senatus 
Populusque  Homanus  :  the  consul,  the  lictors,  the  purple 
embroidered  togas,  the  strifes  of  the  Forum,  an  angered 
people,  defiled  slowly  before  him  like  the  vaporous  fig- 
ures of  a  dream.  And  then,  above  them  all,  towered 
Christian  Rome.  A  painting  caught  his  eye  ;  he  saw 
the  Virgin  Mary  in  the  midst  of  angels,  on  a  golden 
cloud,  eclipsing  the  glory  of  the  sun  and  listening  to 
the  plaints  of  the  sorrowful,  on  whom  she  —  the  regen- 
erated Eve  —  was  smiling  tenderly.  But  as  he  touched 
a  mosaic  made  with  the  lavas  of  Etna  and  Vesuvius, 
his  soul  sprang  away  to  Italy,  to  the  glowing,  tawny 
South  ;  he  was  present  at  the  Borgia  orgies  ;  he  wan- 
dered in  the  Abruzzi  ;  he  loved  with  an  Italian  love, 
and  grew  enamoured  of  those  white  faces  with  the 
black  almond  eyes.  He  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
midnight  interviews,  cut  short  by  the  cold  steel  of  a 
husband's  weapon,  as  his  eye  rested  on  a  dagger  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  whose  handle  was  wrought  with  the 
delicacy  of  lace- work  and  whose  blade  was  rusty  with 
what  looked  like  blood.  India  and  its  religions  lived 
again  to  Occidental  eyes  in  an  idol,  coifed  with  the 
pointed  cap  and  four  raised  sides  bearing  the  bells,  and 
dressed  in  gold  and  silken  stuffs.  Near  to  this  gro- 
tesque figure,  a  rug,  pretty  as  the  nautch-girl  who  once, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


21 


no  doubt,  had  lain  upon  it,  still  gave  forth  its  sandal- 
wood odors.  A  Chinese  monster  with  inverted  eyes, 
contorted  mouth,  and  twisted  limbs,  revealed  to  the 
looker-on  the  soul  of  a  people  who,  weary  of  monoto- 
nous beauty,  have  found  ineffable  pleasure  in  a  wealth 
of  ugliness.  But  here  a  salt-cellar  from  the  hand  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini  brought  him  back  to  the  bosom  of 
the  Renaissance,  —  to  the  days  when  art  and  license 
flourished,  when  sovereigns  took  their  pleasure  at  exe- 
cutions, when  prelates  lying  in  the  arms  of  courtesans 
decreed  chastity  for  the  lower  priesthood.  He  saw  the 
conquests  of  Alexander  on  a  cameo,  the  massacres  of 
Pizarro  in  a  matchlock  arquebuse,  the  wars  of  a  dis- 
orderly, raging,  and  cruel  religion  in  the  hollow  head- 
piece of  a  helmet.  Then,  all  at  once,  the  smiling  images 
of  chivalry  filled  his  brain,  as  they  sprang  forth  from  a 
superbly  damascened  piece  of  Milanese  armor,  highly 
polished,  beneath  whose  visor  the  eyes  of  paladins 
seemed  still  to  glow. 

This  ocean  of  inventions,  fashions,  handicrafts,  re- 
sults, and  ruins,  were  to  the  stranger  a  poem  without 
an  end.  Forms,  colors,  thoughts  were  resurrected, 
but  nothing  complete  was  offered  to  the  soul.  It  de- 
volved upon  the  poet  to  finish  the  sketch  of  the  great 
painter  who  had  prepared  this  vast  palette,  where  all 
the  accidents  of  human  life  were  flung  in  profusion  and 
as  if  disdainfully.  After  thus  compassing  the  world, 
contemplating  nations,  eras,  dynasties,  the  young  man 
came  back  to  individual  existences.  The  life  of  na- 
tions was  too  overwhelming  for  man,  the  solitary  ;  he 
individualized  himself  once  more,  and  looked  for  the 
details  of  human  life. 


22 


The  Magic  Skin. 


There  la}^  a  waxen  infant  sleeping,  saved  from  the 
collection  of  Ri^sch  ;  the  enchanting  creature  recalled 
to  him  the  jo}'S  of  his  childhood.  At  the  magic  aspect 
of  the  waist-cloth  of  a  Tahitian  virgin,  his  fervid  imag- 
ination showed  him  the  simple  life  of  nature,  the  chaste 
nakedness  of  true  purity,  the  delights  of  indolence,  — 
so  natural  to  man,  —  a  calm  existence,  young  and 
dreamy,  beside  a  brook,  beneath  a  plantain  which  be- 
stowed its  luscious  manna  without  the  toils  of  culture. 
But  in  another  moment  he  was  a  corsair,  clothed  with 
the  terrible  poetry  of  Lara,  suddenly  inspired  by  the 
opalescent  colors  of  wondrous  shells,  excited  by  a 
glimpse  of  corals  still  smelling  of  the  algae  and  the 
sea-wracks  of  Atlantic  hurricanes.  Admiring,  further 
on,  the  delicate  miniatures,  the  azure  and  gold  ara- 
besques that  enriched  some  precious  missal,  the  toil 
of  a  lifetime,  he  forgot  the  tumults  of  ocean.  Softly 
cradled  in  thoughts  of  peace,  he  turned  anew  to  study 
and  to  science,  desiring  the  unctuous  life  of  monks 
exempt  from  griefs,  exempt  from  pleasures,  sleeping 
in  cells,  and  gazing  from  their  Gothic  windows  upon 
the  meadows,  the  woods,  the  vineyards  of  their  monas- 
tery. Before  a  Teniers  he  buckled  on  the  knapsack  of 
a  soldier,  or  picked  up  the  hod  of  a  laborer  ;  he  wished 
to  wear  the  dirty  smoky  cap  of  a  Fleming,  to  get  drunk 
with  beer,  play  cards  in  their  company,  and  smile  at 
some  coarse  peasant- woman  of  attractive  stoutness. 
He  shivered  at  the  snow-storms  of  Mieris,  and  fought 
in  the  mêlée  as  he  stood  before  a  battlepiece  by  Salva- 
tor  Rosa.  He  handled  a  tomahawk  from  Illinois,  and 
felt  the  knife  of  the  Cherokee  as  the  savage  took  his 
scalp.     Marvelling  at  the  sight  of  a  Moorish  rebec, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


23 


he  gave  it  into  the  hands  of  a  lady  of  the  manor,  lis- 
tened to  the  melodious  ballad,  and  declared  his  love 
at  even,  beside  the  hooded  fireplace,  where  her  con- 
senting glance  was  lost  in  the  twilight  of  the  place 
and  hour.  He  clutched  at  every  joy,  seized  upon  every 
sorrow,  gathered  to  himself  all  the  formulas  of  exist- 
ence as  he  thus  cast  himself  and  his  feelings  into  these 
phantoms  of  a  pictured  and  unreal  nature,  till  at  last 
the  noise  of  his  own  footsteps  resounded  in  his  soul, 
like  the  distant  echoes  of  another  world,  or  as  the 
hoarse  murmurs  of  Paris  reach  the  topmost  towers  of 
Notre-Dame. 

As  the  young  man  mounted  the  interior  staircase 
which  led  to  the  rooms  on  the  floor  above,  he  no- 
ticed votive  bucklers,  panoplies,  carved  shrines,  wooden 
images,  either  hanging  to  the  walls  or  resting  on  every 
stair.  Pursued  by  the  strangest  shapes,  by  marvellous 
creations  which  seemed  to  exist  on  the  confines  of  life  and 
death,  he  walked  as  one  in  a  vision.  Doubting  his  own 
existence,  he  seemed,  like  the  objects  about  him,  neither 
altogether  dead  nor  altogether  living.  When  he  entered 
the  upper  rooms  daylight  was  beginning  to  fade,  but  it 
seemed  unneeded  amid  the  dazzling  glitter  of  gold  and 
silver  articles  which  were  there  heaped  together.  The 
costliest  caprices  of  dead  collectors,  dying  in  garrets 
after  possessing  millions,  were  in  this  vast  bazaar  of 
human  folly.  A  desk  that  had  cost  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  bought  back  for  a  thousand  sous,  lay  beside 
a  secret  lock  whose  price  would  formerly  have  sufficed 
for  a  king's  ransom.  Human  genius  was  there  in  the 
pomp  of  its  poverty,  in  all  the  glor}T  of  its  gigantic 
pettiness.    An  ebony  table,  true  idol  of  art,  carved 


24 


The  Magic  Skin. 


from  designs  by  Jean  Goujon,  and  costing  man}^  years 
of  toil,  had  doubtless  been  bought  at  the  price  of  fire- 
wood. Precious  coffers,  articles  of  furniture  made  by 
magic  hands,  were  piled  disdainfully  one  upon  another. 

4 'You  have  millions  here!"  cried  the  young  man, 
entering  a  room  which  terminated  a  long  suite  of  apart- 
ments carved  and  gilded  by  artists  of  the  last  centuiy . 

"  Say  thousands  of  millions, "  answered  the  chubby 
youth.  "But  this  is  nothing;  come  up  to  the  third 
floor,  and  you  shall  see  !  " 

The  stranger  followed  his  conductor  and  reached  a 
fourth  series  of  rooms,  where  there  passed  in  succession 
before  his  wearied  eyes  several  pictures  by  Poussin, 
a  noble  statue  by  Michael  Angelo,  some  enchanting 
landscapes  of  Claude  Lorrain,  a  Gerard  Dow  that  was 
like  a  page  of  Sterne,  Rembrandts,  Murillos,  and  Velas- 
quez, sombre  and  darkly  glowing,  like  a  poem  of  Lord 
Byron  ;  also  antique  bas-reliefs,  exquisite  specimens  of 
onyx  and  agate  cups.  A  vase  of  Egyptian  porphyry, 
of  inestimable  value,  with  circular  carvings  represent- 
ing the  grotesque  licentiousness  of  Roman  obscenity, 
scarcely  won  a  smile.  The  man  was  suffocating  under 
the  wrack  of  fifty  vanished  centuries  ;  he  was  sick  with 
the  thoughts  of  humanity,  fainting  under  luxury  and 
art,  prostrated  by  those  strange  shapes  of  the  Renais- 
sance which,  like  monsters  begotten  beneath  his  feet 
by  evil  genius,  seemed  to  challenge  him  to  endless 
fight. 

The  soul  in  its  caprices  is  like  our  modern  chemistry 
which  assigns  creation  to  a  gas  ;  it  compounds  poisons 
by  the  rapid  concentration  of  its  enjoyments,  its  forces, 
or  its  ideas.    Many  men  have  perished  from  the  con- 


The  Magic  Skin. 


25 


vulsion  caused  by  the  sudden  diffusion  of  some  moral 
acid  through  their  inward  being. 

"  What  does  this  box  contain?  "  asked  the  stranger, 
stopping  before  a  large  cabinet  filled  with  the  glories  of 
human  toil,  originality,  and  wealth,  and  pointing  to  a 
square  case  made  of  mahogany,  which  was  hanging 
from  a  nail  by  a  silver  chain. 

"  Ah  !  monsieur  has  the  key  to  that,"  said  the  stout 
lad,  with  an  air  of  mystery.  "  If  you  wish  to  see  that 
portrait  I  will  risk  asking  him." 

"  Risk?"  exclaimed  the  stranger.  "  Is  your  master 
a  prince  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  youth. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment.  Then,  in- 
terpreting the  stranger's  silence  to  mean  a  wish,  the 
apprentice  left  him  alone  in  the  galler}\ 

Did  you  ever  launch  yourself  into  the  vague  immens- 
ity of  space  and  time  as  you  read  the  geological  works 
of  Cuvier?  Carried  away  by  his  genius,  have  you  hov- 
ered above  the  fathomless  abyss  of  the  past  as  though 
sustained  by  the  hand  of  a  magician  ?  Discovering,  line 
upon  line,  layer  upon  layer,  in  the  quarries  of  Mont- 
martre or  the  gneiss  of  the  Urals,  those  animals  whose 
fossilized  remains  belong  to  antediluvian  civilizations, 
the  soul  is  terrified  as  it  perceives  the  thousand  millions 
of  years  and  of  peoples  which  feeble  human  memory, 
even  divine  indestructible  tradition  has  forgotten,  yet 
whose  dust  survives,  here  on  the  surface  of  our  earth, 
in  the  two  feet  of  soil  which  give  us  bread  and  flowers. 
Is  not  Cuvier  the  greatest  poet  of  our  century?  Lord 
Byron  reproduces  moral  throes  in  verse,  but  our  immor- 
tal naturalist  has  reconstructed  worlds  from  a  whitened 


26 


The  Magic  Skin. 


bone  ;  rebuilt,  like  Cadmus,  cities  from  a  tooth  ;  re- 
peopled,  from  an  atom  of  coal,  a  thousand  forests  with 
the  mysteries  of  zoology  ;  and  recalled  to  human  knowl- 
edge races  of  giants  from  the  foot  of  a  mastodon.  These 
forms  arise  and  tower  up  and  people  regions  that  are  in 
harmony  with  their  colossal  statures.  Cuvier  is  a  poet  by 
mere  numbers.  He  stirs  the  void  with  no  artificially 
magic  utterance  ;  he  scoops  out  a  fragment  of  g}rpsum , 
discovers  a  print-mark  and  cries  out  "  Behold  !  "  —  and 
lo,  the  trees  are  animalized,  death  becomes  life,  the  world 
unfolds.  After  dynasties  innumerable  of  gigantic  creat- 
ures, after  races  of  fishes  and  kingdoms  of  molluscs, 
the  human  kind  appears,  degenerate  product  of  a  gran- 
diose type  broken  perhaps  by  the  Creator.  Warmed 
to  life  by  his  retrospective  glance,  these  puny  men, 
born  yesterday,  have  o'erleapt  chaos  and  called  the 
past  of  the  universe  into  shape,  as  it  were  a  retrospective 
Apocalypse,  with  endless  hymns  of  praise.  In  presence 
of  this  awe-inspiring  resurrection  due  to  the  voice  of 
one  man,  the  fragment  that  is  conceded  to  us  of  this 
infinite  without  a  name,  common  to  all  spheres  and 
which  we  call  Time,  —  the  fragment,  the  atom,  in  which 
we  have  only  a  life-interest,  —  is  pitiable.  We  ask  our- 
selves, crushed  as  we  are  beneath  these  ruined  worlds, 
of  what  use  are  all  our  glories,  hates,  and  loves  ;  and 
whether,  to  become  an  imperceptible  speck  in  the  future, 
the  pains  of  life  need  be  endured.  Uprooted  from  the 
present  we  are  as  if  dead  —  until  our  valet  opens  the 
door  and  comes  up  to  us  to  say,  "  Madame  la  comtesse 
replies  that  she  expects  monsieur." 

The  marvels  thus  spread  before  the  e}res  of  the  young 
man,  revealing  the  universe  itself,  filled  his  soul  with  a 


The  Magic  Skin. 


27 


depression  comparable  only  to  that  of  the  philosopher 
seeking  a  scientific  view  of  mysterious  creations  ;  he 
longed  more  than  ever  to  die,  and  threw  himself  into  a 
curule  chair,  suffering  his  eyes  to  rove  amid  the  phan- 
toms of  this  panorama  of  the  past.  The  pictures 
glowed,  the  virgins  smiled  upon  him,  the  statues  wore 
the  deceptive  hues  of  life.  In  the  shadows  of  the  room 
and  of  the  twilight  these  works  of  ages,  put  in  motion 
by  the  feverish  ferment  of  his  shattered'  brain,  danced 
and  whirled  about  him  ;  each  fantastic  image  grinned 
upon  him,  the  eyelids  of  the  personages  in  the  pictures 
drooped  as  though  to  rest  their  eyes.  Each  weird  shape 
shivered,  moved,  detached  itself  from  its  surroundings, 
gravely  or  frivolously,  with  grace  or  clumsiness,  accord- 
ing to  its  nature,  its  habits,  or  its  composition.  It  was 
a  witches'  sabbath  worthy  of  the  Brocken  and  Doctor 
Faust. 

But  these  optical  phenomena,  superinduced  by  fatigue, 
by  the  tension  of  the  ocular  muscles,  or  by  the  whimsi- 
cal suggestions  of  the  twilight,  could  not  frighten  the 
young  man.  The  terrors  of  life  were  powerless  over  a 
soul  that  was  now  familiar  with  the  terrors  of  death. 
He  even  lent  himself  to  a  sort  of  ironical  collusion  with 
the  fantasticalities  of  this  moral  galvanism,  whose  freaks 
coupled  themselves  with  the  last  thoughts  which  the 
sense  of  existence  still  forced  upon  him.  Silence 
reigned  so  stilly  about  him  that  soon  he  wandered  into  a 
gentle  revery,  whose  impressions,  slowly  darkening,  fol- 
lowed, shadow  by  shadow,  and  as  if  by  magic,  the  slow 
decline  of  the  light  of  day.  A  last  gleam  coming  from 
the  sky  sent  a  ruddy  shaft  against  the  inroad  of  the 
night  ;  he  raised  his  head  and  saw  a  skeleton,  swinging 


28 


The  Magic  Skin. 


its  skull  pensively  from  left  to  right  as  though  to  tell 
him:  —  "The  dead  do  not  yet  want  thee."  Passing 
his  hand  across  his  brow  to  prevent  sleep,  he  dis- 
tinctly felt  a  waft  of  chilly  air  produced  by  some  hairy 
substance  which  swept  past  his  cheek,  and  he  shud- 
dered. The  casement  creaked  ;  he  fancied  that  the 
cold  caress,  foretelling  the  nwsteries  of  the  grave,  came 
from  a  bat.  For  a  moment  longer,  the  dim  reflections 
of  the  sunken  sun  allowed  him  still  to  see  the  phantoms 
by  which  he  was  surrounded  ;  then  the  dead  world  of 
things  died  at  once  into  the  darkness.  Night,  and  the 
hour  of  death  came  swiftly.  After  that  moment  there 
was  a  lapse  of  time  during  which  he  had  no  clear  per- 
ception of  terrestrial  things, — either  because  he  was 
wrapped  in  revery,  or  because  he  yielded  to  the  drows- 
iness produced  by  fatigue  and  by  the  multitude  of 
thoughts  that  rent  his  heart.  Suddenly  he  fancied  he 
heard  himself  called  by  an  awful  voice,  and  he  shud- 
dered like  a  man  in  a  feverish  nightmare  when  he  fan- 
cies he  is  flung  at  a  bound  to  the  depths  of  some  abyss. 
He  closed  his  e}^es,  but  the  rays  of  a  strong  light 
dazzled  them  ;  then  he  opened  them  and  saw,  in  the 
depths  of  the  shadows,  a  shining  red  disk,  in  the  centre 
of  which  an  old  man  stood  erect,  turning  the  rays  of  a 
lamp  full  upon  him.  He  had  heard  nothing,  neither  the 
step,  nor  the  movement,  nor  the  voice  of  this  figure. 
The  apparition  seemed  magical.  Brave  men  roused 
from  sleep  might  have  trembled  before  this  personage 
who  seemed  to  have  risen  from  a  neighboring  sarcopha- 
gus. A  singular  expression  of  youth,  which  animated 
the  motionless  e}Tes  of  the  seeming  phantom,  prevented 
the  young  man  from  thinking  the  figure  supernatural. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


29 


Still,  during  the  short  moment  that  intervened  between 
his  somnambulic  life  and  his  return  to  actual  existence, 
he  was  held  by  the  philosophic  doubt  which  Descartes 
recommends,  and  then  in  spite  of  himself,  he  fell  under 
the  influence  of  those  inexplicable  hallucinations  whose 
mysteries  our  pride  condemns  and  our  impotent  science 
strives  in  vain  to  analyze. 

Imagine  a  little,  lean,  and  shrunken  old  man,  wearing 
a  black  velvet  robe,  fastened  round  his  loins  with  a 
heavy  silken  cord.  A  skull-cap,  also  of  black  velvet, 
fitted  the  head  so  as  to  closely  frame  the  forehead,  and 
yet  allow  the  long,  white  hair  to  fall  on  either  side  his 
face.  The  robe  was  wrapped  around  the  body  like  a 
winding-sheet,  and  allowed  no  sign  of  it  to  appear 
below  the  pale  and  narrow  face.  Without  the  fleshless 
arm,  which  resembled  a  stick  on  which  the  velvet  hung, 
and  which  the  old  man  held  on  high  to  throw  the  full 
light  of  the  lamp  upon  the  stranger,  the  face  might  have 
seemed  suspended  in  mid-air.  A  gray  beard,  trimmed 
to  a  point,  hid  the  chin  of  this  weird  being,  and  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  those  Jewish  heads  which  artists 
use  as  types  of  Moses.  The  old  man's  lips  were  so 
thin  and  colorless  that  some  attention  was  needed  to 
trace  the  line  of  the  mouth  in  that  blanched  visage. 
His  broad  and  furrowed  brow,  his  wan  cheeks,  and  the 
implacable  sternness  of  his  small,  green  eyes,  bare  of 
lashes  and  of  eyebrows,  might  have  led  the  stranger  to 
suppose  that  Gerard  Dow's  Mone}'-changer  had  stepped 
from  its  frame.  The  craftiness  of  an  inquisitor,  be- 
trayed by  the  sinuous  lines  of  the  wrinkles,  and  the 
circular  creases  on  the  forehead,  showed  the  depths  of 
his  knowledge  of  the  things  of  life.    It  was  impossible 


30 


The  Magic  Skin. 


to  deceive  him,  for  he  seemed  to  have  the  gift  of  read- 
ing the  inmost  thoughts  of  the  most  secluded  heart. 
The  ethics  of  all  the  nations  of  the  globe,  and  the  wis- 
dom of  them,  were  gathered  into  that  white  face,  just 
as  the  productions  of  the  universe  were  accumulated 
in  his  dusty  galleries.  Upon  it  you  might  read  the 
lucid  calm  of  a  god  whose  eye  sees  all,  or  the  proud 
strength  of  a  man  who  has  seen  it.  A  painter  could 
have  made  of  these  two  expressions  and  of  this  one 
man,  by  two  strokes  of  his  brush,  a  noble  image  of  the 
Eternal  Father,  or  the  scoffing  masque  of  a  Mephistoph- 
eles  ;  on  the  brow  he  would  have  found  omnipotence, 
on  the  lips  the  vicious  jest.  The  man  must  have  killed 
all  earthly  joys  within  him,  while  he  ground  the  anguish 
of  human  life  with  the  pestle  of  his  power.  The  young 
stranger,  though  himself  about  to  die,  shuddered  at  a 
fancy  that  this  ancient  genie  inhabited  some  other 
sphere,  where  he  lived  alone,  without  joy,  because  with- 
out illusion,  and  without  sorrows,  for  he  knew  no  joy. 
The  old  man  stood  erect,  motionless,  moveless  as  a  star 
in  the  middle  of  a  lustrous  sky.  His  green  eyes,  full  of 
calm  maliciousness,  seemed  to  light  the  moral  world  as 
the  lamp  which  he  held  aloft  illuminated  the  mysterious 
gallery. 

Such  was  the  strange  sight  which  met  the  young 
man's  eyes  when  he  opened  them  after  swa}'ing,  half- 
unconscious,  between  thoughts  of  death  and  the  fan- 
tastic images  of  worlds  about  him.  If  for  a  moment  he 
was  bewildered,  if  he  allowed  himself  to  believe,  like  a 
child,  in  some  old  nurse's  tale  of  his  infancy,  it  is  ex- 
plainable by  the  irritation  of  his  nerves,  and  by  the 
strange  drama  whose  panoramic  scenes  had  given  him 


The  Magic  Skin. 


31 


some  of  the  horrible  delights  contained  in  opium.  This 
vision  was  taking  place  in  Paris,  on  the  quai  Voltaire, 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  a  time  and  place  where 
magic  was  surely  impossible.  The  young  man,  living 
near  to  the  house  in  which  the  apostle  of  French  unbe- 
lief had  died,  a  disciple  of  Gay-Lussac  and  of  Arago, 
and  contemptuous  of  the  juggling  tricks  of  the  day,  was 
simpty  overcome  by  a  momentary  superstition,  a  poetic 
fascination,  to  which  men  often  lend  themselves,  as 
much  to  flee  from  agonizing  truths  as  to  tempt  the 
power  of  God.  He  trembled,  therefore,  before  that 
light  and  that  old  man,  filled  by  an  inexplicable  pre- 
sentiment of  some  strange  power  ;  the  emotion  was  the 
same  we  have  all  experienced  before  Napoleon,  or  in 
presence  of  some  brilliant  man  of  genius  clothed  with 
fame. 

"  Monsieur  wishes  to  see  the  portrait  of  Jesus  Christ, 
painted  by  Kaphael  ?  "  asked  the  old  man  courteously, 
in  a  voice  whose  clear,  sharp  resonance  had  a  metallic 
ring. 

He  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  shaft  of  a  broken  col- 
umn; in  a  manner  to  throw  its  whole  light  upon  the 
wooden  box. 

At  the  sacred  names  of  Christ  and  Raphael,  a  move- 
ment of  curiosity  escaped  the  young  man,  which  was 
no  doubt  expected  by  the  antiquary,  who  now  touched 
a  spring.  Suddenly  the  mahogany  panel  slid  noise- 
lessly through  its  groove,  and  disclosed  the  picture  to 
the  admiration  of  its  beholder.  Seeing  that  immortal 
creation,  he  forgot  the  weird  sights  of  the  gallery  and  the 
visions  of  his  sleep  ;  he  became  once  more  a  man  ;  he 
recognized  a  fellow-man,  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood,  in 


32 


The  Magic  Skin. 


his  companion,  a  living  man,  and  in  no  way  phantas- 
magorical  ;  he  felt  himself  in  the  world  of  real  things. 
The  tender  solicitude,  the  sweet  serenity  of  the  divine 
face  at  once  acted  upon  him.  Some  essence  wafted 
from  heaven  relaxed  the  infernal  tortures  which  wrung 
him  even  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones.  The  head  of  the 
Saviour  of  men  seemed  to  detach  itself  from  the  dark- 
ness of  the  back-ground  ;  a  halo  of  brilliant  rays  shone 
vividly  around  the  golden  hair  from  which  their  bril- 
liance issued  ;  beneath  the  brow,  beneath  the  flesh 
there  was  a  meaning,  an  eloquent,  convincing  power, 
which  escaped  in  penetrating  effluence  from  every  feat- 
ure. Those  coral  lips  seemed  to  have  just  uttered  the 
words  of  life,  and  the  spectator  listened  for  the  sacred 
echo  in  the  airs  ;  he  prayed  the  silence  to  give  back 
their  meaning,  he  listened  for  it  in  the  future,  he  heard 
it  in  the  teachings  of  the  past.  The  gospel  was  there 
in  the  calm  kindness  of  those  eyes,  to  which  the 
troubled  soul  might  fly  for  refuge.  The  full  meaning 
of  the  catholic  religion  could  be  read  in  the  gentle, 
all-comprehending  smile  which  seemed  to  express  the 
precept  in  which  alone  is  the  true  faith  summed  up  : 
"  Love  one  another."  The  picture  inspired  praj'er, 
counselled  forgiveness,  stifled  self,  awakened  every  dor- 
mant virtue.  Raphael's  divine  work,  sharing  the  privi- 
leges of  music,  cast  the  spectator  beneath  the  imperious 
charm  of  memory,  and  its  triumph  became  complete  ; 
the  painter  was  forgotten.  The  illusions  of  light  were 
on  the  marvellous  picture  ;  sometimes  the  head  seemed 
to  move  at  a  far  distance,  in  the  midst  of  vapor. 

"I  have  covered  that  canvas  with  gold,"  said  the 
antiquary,  coldly. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


83 


u  The  die  is  cast,  — it  must  be  death!"  cried  the 
young  man,  coming  out  of  a  revery  whose  final  thought 
had  brought  him  back  to  his  cruel  destiny  and  forced  him, 
step  by  step,  from  a  last  hope  to  which  he  had  clung. 

64  Ha,  I  was  right  to  doubt  you  !  "  exclaimed  the  old 
man,  seizing  the  stranger's  wrists  and  holding  them  as 
if  in  a  vice. 

The  young  man  smiled  sadly  at  this  distrust  and  said 
in  a  gentle  voice:  "Fear  nothing,  monsieur  ;  I  spoke 
of  my  death,  not  yours.  Wiry  should  I  not  acknowledge 
a  harmless  deception?  "  he  added,  noticing  the  old  man's 
anxiety.  "While  waiting  for  nightfall,  that  I  might 
drown  myself  in  the  darkness  without  notice,  I  came 
here  to  see  your  treasures.  You  cannot  begrudge  this 
last  pleasure  to  aman  of  science  and  poetry?" 

The  old  man  examined  the  gloomy  face  of  his  pre- 
tended customer  with  a  sagacious  eye  as  he  listened  to 
him.  Either  he  was  reassured  by  the  tones  of  that 
sad  voice,  or  he  read  on  the  pallid  features  the  awful 
destiny  which  had  lately  made  even  gamblers  shudder, 
for  he  loosened  his  grasp  ;  then,  with  lingering  suspicion, 
he  stretched  his  arm  carelessly  toward  a  table,  as  if  to 
rest  upon  it,  saying,  as  he  picked  up  a  stiletto,  — 

"Are  you  a  supernumerary  at  the  Treasury,  without 
perquisites?  " 

The  young  man  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  as  he 
made  a  negative  gesture. 

"  Has  your  father  reproached  you  for  entering  the 
world  ;  or  are  you  yourself  dishonored  ?  " 

u  To  live  would  dishonor  me." 

6  '  Have  the}7  hissed  y  our  play  at  the  Funambules  ? 
Are  you  forced  to  write  farces  to  pay  for  your  mistress's 

3 


34 


The  Magic  Shin. 


funeral?  Perhaps  you  have  got  the  gold  disease;  or, 
after  all,  you  may  only  be  trying  to  escape  ennui?  In 
short,  what  weakness  is  it  that  bids  you  die?" 

' 4  The  cause  of  my  death  is  not  to  be  found  among 
the  common  reasons  that  lead  men  to  suicide.  To 
spare  myself  the  revelation  of  m}'  untold  sufferings  — 
which  are  indeed  beyond  the  power  of  human  language 
to  express  —  I  will  tell  you  once  for  all  that  I  am  in 
the  deepest,  the  keenest,  the  most  ignoble  povert}'. 
And,"  he  added,  in  a  voice  whose  savage  pride  gave  the 
lie  to  his  preceding  words,  "  I  ask  for  neither  succor 
nor  consolation." 

"  Eh  !  eh  !  "  These  two  syllables,  which  the  old  man 
uttered  like  the  cry  of  a  hawk,  were  at  first  his  only  an- 
swer ;  then  he  added:  "Without  obliging  you  to  beg 
of  me,  without  causing  you  to  blush,  without  giving  you 
a  centime  of  France,  nor  a  para  of  the  Levant,  a  tarant 
of  Sicily,  a  kreuzer  of  Germany,  a  kopeck  of  Russia, 
a  farthing  of  Scotland,  nor  a  single  one  of  those  sesterces 
and  oboli  of  ancient  times,  nor  a  piastre  of  the  new  ; 
without  offering  you  so  much  as  a  scrap  of  gold,  silver, 
copper,  paper,  or  value  of  any  kind,  I  will  make  you 
richer  than  monarchs,  more  powerful,  more  respected 
than  any  constitutional  king  can  ever  be." 

The  3'oung  man  thought  him  in  his  dotage  and  re- 
mained silent,  torpid,  not  venturing  to  speak. 

"  Turn  round,"  said  the  old  man,  suddenly  seizing 
his  lamp  to  throw  the  light  full  upon  the  wall  that 
was  opposite  to  the  picture,  "and  behold  that  Magic 
Skin  !  " 

The  young  man  rose  abruptly,  and  showed  some  sur- 
prise when  he  saw  hanging  to  the  wall  above  the  seat 


The  Magic  Skin. 


35 


on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  a  piece  of  shagreen,  the 
dimensions  of  which  did  not  exceed  a  fox's  skin  ;  and 
yet  b}7  some  inexplicable  phenomenon,  this  skin  pro- 
jected so  vivid  a  light  into  the  gloom  of  the  gallery  that 
it  seemed  almost  like  a  miniature  comet.  The  young 
sceptic  went  up  to  the  pretended  talisman  which  was  to 
save  him  from  the  evils  of  existence,  mentally  scoffing  at 
it.  Nevertheless,  moved  by  a  very  natural  curiosity,  he 
leaned  over  to  examine  the  Skin  on  all  sides,  and  soon 
discovered  a  natural  cause  for  its  singular  luminosuyy. 
The  black  grains  of  the  leather  were  so  highly  polished 
and  burnished,  its  curious  stripes  were  so  clearly  de- 
fined that,  like  the  many  facets  on  a  piece  of  granite, 
the  granulated  roughness  of  this  oriental  leather  pre- 
sented a  thousand  little  surfaces  which  vividly  reflected 
light.  He  explained  the  phenomenon  mathematically  to 
the  old  man,  who  merely  smiled  maliciously.  That  smile 
of  calm  superiority  made  the  younger  man  of  science 
suspect  that  he  was  the  dupe  of  some  trickery.  Deter- 
mined not  to  carry  another  enigma  to  the  grave,  he 
turned  the  Skin  quickly,  like  a  child  eager  to  learn  the 
secrets  of  his  new  toy. 

"  Ha  !  "  he  cried,  "  here  is  an  impression  of  what  the 
orientals  called  Solomon's  seal." 

"  You  recognize  it?  "  said  the  antiquary,  whose  nos- 
trils emitted  two  or  three  puffs  of  air  that  expressed  more 
than  the  most  vehement  language. 

"Is  there  a  man  on  earth  so  foolish  as  to  believe  that 
myth?"  cried  the  young  man,  piqued  at  this  silent 
laughter,  so  full  of  bitter  derision.  "Do  you  not 
know,"  he  added,  "  that  the  superstitious  East  has 
consecrated  the  mystic  form  and  the  lying  characters  of 


36 


The  Magic  Skin, 


this  emblem  of  fabulous  power?  You  need  not  tax  me 
with  credulity  because  I  recognize  it  as  I  might  a 
sphinx  or  a  griffin,  whose  existence  is  in  a  manner 
mythologically  admitted." 

"  Since  you  are  an  orientalist,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  perhaps  you  can  read  this  sentence." 

He  brought  the  lamp  close  to  the  talisman,  which  the 
young  man  was  holding  with  the  reverse  side  toward 
him,  and  pointed  out  certain  strange  characters  em- 
bedded in  the  cellular  tissue  of  the  wonderful  Skin,  as 
though  the}'  had  been  a  part  of  the  animal  it  had  once 
covered. 

UI  admit,"  said  the  young  man,  "that  I  cannot 
imagine  by  what  process  those  letters  have  been  so 
deeply  engraved  on  the  skin  of  a  wild  ass." 

Then,  turning  eagerly  to  the  shelves  covered  with 
curiosities,  his  eyes  appeared  to  seek  for  something. 

"  What  is  it  you  want?  "  said  the  old  man. 

"  Some  instrument  to  cut  the  skin,  so  as  to  see 
whether  those  letters  are  stamped,  or  inlaid." 

The  old  man  gave  him  the  stiletto  which  he  still 
held,  and  the  stranger  began  to  make  an  incision  into 
the  skin  at  the  part  where  the  letters  appeared.  After 
lifting  a  small  portion  of  the  leather  the  letters  re- 
appeared below,  as  neatly  and  sharply  as  on  the 
surface. 

"  The  industries  of  the  East  have  secrets,"  he  said, 
looking  at  the  oriental  sentence  with  some  uneasiness, 
4*  which  are  peculiarly  their  own." 

"  Yes."  answered  the  old  man,  it  is  better  to  put  the 
responsibility  on  man  than  on  God." 

The  mysterious  words  were  arranged  as  follows  :  — 


The  Magic  Skin. 


37 


^rf"  <jj&) 


T 


IF  THOU  POSSESSEDST  ME,  THOU  WOULDST  POSSESS  ALL. 
BUT  THY  LIFE  WOULD  BE   MY  POSSESSION. 
GOD    SO  WILLS  IT. 
WISH,  AND  THOU  SHALT  OBTAIN  THY  WISHES. 
BUT  MEASURE  THY  WISHES  BY  THY  LIFE. 
IT  IS  HERE. 

AT  EVERY  WISH  OF  THINE  I  SHRINK  LIKE  THY  DAYS. 
DOST  THOU  DESIRE  ME?     TAKE  ME. 
GOD  WILL  GRANT  THY  WISHES. 
SO  BE  IT. 


38 


The  Magic  Shin. 


"Ha!  you  read  Arabic  ?"  said  the  antiquary. 
"Perhaps  you  have  crossed  the  deserts  and  seen 
Mecca?" 

"No,  monsieur,"  said  the  young  man,  fingering  the 
symbolic  Skin  with  much  curiosity,  and  finding  it  almost 
as  inflexible  as  a  sheet  of  metal. 

The  old  man  replaced  the  lamp  on  the  broken  column, 
glancing  at  his  companion  with  a  cold  irony  that  seemed 
to  say,  "  He  thinks  no  more  about  dying." 

"  Is  it  a  jest,  or  is  it  a  mystery?  "  asked  the  young 
man. 

The  antiquary  shook  his  head  and  answered  gravely  : 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  have  offered  the  terrible  power 
bestowed  by  this  talisman  to  men  gifted  with  more 
vigor  than  you  seem  to  possess,  but  though  they  scoffed 
at  the  problematical  influence  it  threatened  to  have  over 
their  future  destiny,  not  one  was  willing  to  risk  binding 
himself  to  the  fatal  compact  proposed  by  the  mysteri- 
ous power,  —  whatever  that  may  be.  I  agree  with 
them  ;  I  have  abstained  from  it  myself,  and  —  " 

"  Have  you  never  even  tried  its  power?  "  interrupted 
the  young  man. 

"Tried  it!"  exclaimed  the  antiquary.  "If  you 
were  at  the  top  of  the  column  of  the  place  Vendôme 
would  you  try  the  experiment  of  throwing  yourself  into 
the  air?  Can  life  stand  still?  Can  you  take  half  of 
death  and  not  the  other  half?  Before  you  came  into 
my  galleries  you  had  resolved  to  kill  yourself,  and  now, 
all  in  a  moment,  a  mystery  takes  your  thoughts  and 
diverts  you  from  dying.  Child  !  every  day  of  your  life 
offers  you  an  enigma  more  interesting  than  this.  Listen 
to  me.    I  have  seen  the  licentious  court  of  the  regent. 


The  Magic  Skin.       *  39 


I  was  then,  as  you  are,  in  poverty  ;  I  begged  my  bread  ; 
nevertheless  I  have  attained  the  age  of  one  hundred 
and  two  years,  and  I  am  a  millionnaire.  Misfortunes 
gave  me  wealth  ;  ignorance  taught  me.  I  will  reveal 
to  you,  in  a  few  words,  a  great  mystery  of  human  life. 
Man  exhausts  himself  by  two  instinctive  acts,  which 
dry  up  the  sources  of  his  existence.  Two  verbs  express 
all  forms  in  which  these  causes  of  death  appear; 
namely,  Will  and  Action.  Between  those  terms  and 
human  performance  there  is  another  formula,  the  per- 
quisite of  wise  men,  and  to  it  I  owe  my  longevity. 
Will  inflames  us,  Action  destroys  us  ;  but  Knowledge 
leaves  our  weak  organism  in  perennial  calm.  There- 
fore desire,  or  volition,  is  dead  within  me,  killed  by 
thought;  movement,  or  power,  is  determined  by  the 
natural  play  of  my  organs.  In  a  word,  I  have  placed 
my  life,  not  in  the  heart  that  can  be  broken,  not  in 
the  senses  which  can  be  dulled,  but  in  the  brain  that 
never  fails  and  survives  all.  No  excess  in  anything 
has  worn  down  my  soul,  nor  yet  my  body.  Neverthe- 
less, I  have  seen  the  whole  world.  My  feet  have 
trod  the  highest  mountains  of  Asia  and  America,  I 
know  all  human  languages,  I  have  lived  under  every 
form  of  government.  I  have  lent  my  money  to  a 
Chinaman  taking  the  body  of  his  father  as  security  ;  I 
have  slept  in  the  tent  of  an  Arab  on  the  faith  of  his 
word  ;  I  have  signed  contracts  in  every  European  capi- 
tal ;  I  have  fearlessly  left  my  gold  in  the  wigwam  of 
a  savage;  yes,  I  have  obtained  all  things  because  — 
I  have  despised  all.  My  sole  ambition  has  been  to 
see.  To  see  is  to  know.  Young  man,  to  know  is  to 
enjoy  intuitively,  —  to  discover  the  very  substance  of  the 


40 


The  Magic  Skin. 


thing  clone,  and  to  grasp  its  very  essence.  What  is 
there,  after  all,  in  a  material  possession?  An  idea. 
Conceive  therefore  of  the  glorious  life  of  a  man  who, 
imprinting  all  realities  upon  his  thought,  transports 
into  his  soul  the  springs  of  happiness,  and  draws 
thence  a  thousand  ideal  pleasures  stripped  of  their 
earthly  rags.  Thought  is  the  key  to  every  treasure  ;  it 
bestows  the  miser's  joy  without  his  cares.  I  have 
soared  above  the  world  and  looked  down  upon  it  ;  the 
pleasures  I  have  had  have  ever  been  intellectual.  My 
excesses  were  those  of  contemplation  in  many  lands, 
of  peoples,  seas,  forests,  mountains.  I  have  seen 
all,  —  but  calmly,  without  fatigue  ;  I  have  wished  for 
nothing  ;  I  have  waited  for  all.  I  have  walked  to  and 
fro  upon  this  earth  as  though  it  were  the  garden  of  a 
house  that  belonged  to  me.  What  men  call  griefs, 
loves,  ambitions,  disappointments,  sadness,  are  to  me 
ideas  which  I  use  in  revery  ;  instead  of  feeling  them,  I 
express  them,  I  explain  them  ;  instead  of  allowing  them 
to  blast  my  life,  I  dramatize  them,  I  develope  them  ; 
they  amuse  me  as  romances,  which  I  read  by  an  inward 
sight.  Having  never  taxed  my  plrysical  organs,  my 
health  is  still  robust.  My  soul  inherits  the  vigor  I  have 
not  wasted  ;  this  head  of  mine  is  better  filled  than  even 
my  own  galleries.  There,"  he  said,  striking  his  fore- 
head "  there  are  millions.  I  pass  delightful  days  look- 
ing intelligently  back  into  the  past  ;  I  evoke  whole 
regions,  landscapes,  sights  of  ocean,  forms  historically 
sublime.  I  have  my  imaginary  harem,  where  I  possess 
women  I  have  never  had.  I  review  your  wars,  your 
revolutions,  and  I  judge  them.  Ah  !  who  would  prefer 
to  this  the  feverish,  flimsy  admiration  for  a  l^tle  flesh 


The  Magic  Skin. 


41 


more  or  less  colored,  for  forms  more  or  less  shapely  ? 
who  would  prefer  the  catastrophes  of  their  thwarted 
will  to  the  glorious  faculty  of  making  the  whole  world 
present  within  us,  to  the  vast  pleasures  of  movement 
untrammelled  by  the  bounds  of  space  or  time,  to  the 
happiness  of  seeing  all  things,  comprehending  all  things, 
and  reaching  out  beyond  this  sphere  to  question  other 
worlds,  to  hear  God?  Here,"  he  said  an  a  startling 
voice,  pointing  to  the  Magic  Skin,  ' c  are  the  will  and  the 
action  united  ;  here  are  your  social  ideas,  your  intemper- 
ate desires,  your  joys  that  kill,  your  sufferings  that  make 
life  too  vivid,  —  for  it  may  be  that  pain  is  only  violent 
pleasure  :  who  shall  determine  the  point  at  which  pleas- 
ure becomes  an  evil,  and  where  evil  is  still  a  joy?  The 
strongest  lights  of  the  ideal  world  are  blissful  to  the  eye, 
but  the  softest  shadows  of  material  existence  wound  it. 
The  word  Wisdom  is  synonymous  with  knowledge,  and 
what  is  folly  if  not  the  excesses  of  Desire  or  Will?" 

"Yes,  but  I  choose  to  live  in  such  excesses,"  cried 
the  young  man,  snatching  the  Magic  Skin. 

"  Young  man,  beware  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  antiquary, 
with  incredible  energy. 

"  I  gave  my  life  to  study  and  to  thought,  and  they 
have  not  so  much  as  fed  me,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  I 
will  not  be  duped  by  a  homily  worthy  of  Swedenborg, 
nor  by  that  Eastern  talisman,  nor  by  your  charitable 
efforts,  monsieur,  to  keep  me  in  a  world  where  my  ex- 
istence is  henceforth  impossible.  Come,  let  us  see," 
he  added,  holding  the  mystic  object  with  convulsive 
grasp,  and  looking  at  the  old  man.  "  I  will  to  have  a 
dinner,  royally  splendid,  a  banquet  worthy  of  an  age 
which  has,  they  tell  us,  reached  perfection.    I  will  that 


42 


The  Magio  Skin. 


my  fellow-guests  be  young  and  witty  and  wise  without 
prejudices,  — joyous  to  excess  !  The  wines  shall  flow 
and  sparkle  and  have  strength  to  intoxicate  us  for  three 
days.  The  nights  shall  be  adorned  with  ardent  women. 
I  will  that  frenzied,  uproarious  Excess  bear  us  in  his 
four- horse  chariot  beyond  the  confines  of  earth  and 
cast  us  upon  the  unknown  shores,  that  our  souls  may 
mount  to  heaven  or  plunge  into  the  mud,  —  let  them  rise 
or  fall,  I  care  not  which.  I  command  that  malefic  power 
to  blend  me  all  joys  into  one  joy.  Yes,  I  have  need  to 
embrace  the  pleasures  of  earth  and  heaven  in  one  close 
clasp  before  I  die.  I  will  to  have  the  saturnalia  of  an- 
tiquity after  we  have  drunken  ;  songs  to  awake  the 
dead  ;  triple  kisses,  kisses  that  have  no  end,  whose 
clamor  shall  sound  through  Paris  like  the  crackling 
of  flames,  waking  husbands  and  wives  and  inspiring 
them  with  the  ardor  of  their  youth,  even  though  they 
be  octogenarians  —  " 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  mouth  of  the  old  man 
resounded  in  the  ears  of  the  young  madman  like  the 
roarings  of  hell,  and  silenced  him  so  despotically  that 
he  held  his  peace. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  the  antiquary,  "that  my  floors 
are  about  to  open  and  bring  up  a  table  sumptuously 
served,  followed  by  guests  from  another  world?  No, 
no,  rash  youth.  You  have  signed  the  compact  ;  all  is 
accomplished.  You  have  only  to  wish,  and  your  wishes 
will  be  faithfully  fulfilled,  but  —  at  the  cost  of  your  life. 
The  circle  of  your  days,  represented  by  this  Skin,  will 
contract  and  shrink  according  to  the  strength  and  num- 
ber of  your  wishes,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest.  The 
Brahman  from  whom  I  obtained  this  talisman  explained 


The  Magic  Skin. 


43 


to  me  that  it  would  work  a  mystic  correspondence 
between  the  desires  and  the  destiny  of  its  possessor. 
Your  first  desire  is  commonplace  ;  I  could  easily  realize 
it  ;  but  I  leave  that  function  to  the  events  of  your  new 
existence.  After  all,  you  wished  to  die,  did  you  not? 
Well,  your  suicide  is  only  postponed." 

The  stranger,  surprised  and  irritated  to  feel  himself 
the  butt  of  the  singular  old  man,  whose  half-philan- 
thropic  purpose  seemed  clearly  shown  in  this  last 
sarcasm,  cried  out  angrily  :  — 

"I  shall  see  for  myself,  monsieur,  if  my  luck  changes 
during  the  time  it  takes  me  to  reach  the  bridge.  If  I 
find  that  you  have  not  jested  at  the  expense  of  an 
unhappy  man,  I  shall  wish,  to  avenge  myself  for  the 
fatal  service  you  have  done  me,  that  you  fall  madly  in 
love  with  a  ballet-girl.  You  will  then  know  the  joys 
of  a  debauch,  and  perhaps  you  will  become  prodigal  of 
all  those  means  of  happiness  which  you  have  so  philo- 
sophically acquired." 

He  left  the  gallery  without  hearing  the  heavy  sigh 
that  came  from  the  old  man,  crossed  the  suites  of 
rooms  and  ran  down  the  stairs,  followed  by  the  stout 
shop-boy,  who  vainly  tried  to  light  him  as  he  fled  like  a 
robber  taken  in  the  act.  Blinded  by  a  species  of  de- 
lirium, he  did  not  even  observe  the  extraordinary  flex- 
ibility of  the  Skin,  which  had  now  become  as  supple  as 
a  glove,  and  allowed  his  frenzied  fingers  to  roll  it  up 
and  put  it,  almost  mechanically,  into  the  pocket  of  his 
coat.  As  he  rushed  from  the  door  of  the  shop  toward 
the  roadway,  he  ran  violently  against  three  young  men 
who  were  passing  along  the  quay,  arm  in  arm. 


44 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  Brute!" 
"Idiot!" 

Such  were  the  gracious  amenities  which  they  inter- 
changed. 

"  Hey  !  it  is  Raphael  !  " 

"We  have  hunted  everywhere  for  you." 

"What!  is  it  you?" 

These  friendly  phrases  succeeded  the  insults  as  soon 
as  the  light  of  a  street-lamp,  swinging  in  the  wind, 
struck  the  surprised  faces  of  the  group. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  young  man  whom 
Raphael  in  his  rapid  flight  had  almost  knocked  down, 
"  you  must  come  with  us." 

"  Why?  what  has  happened?" 

"  Come  on,  and  I  will  tell  }tou  as  we  go  along." 

Whether  he  would  or  no,  Raphael  was  surrounded  by 
a  merry  band  of  friends,  who  linked  arms  with  him, 
and  dragged  him  toward  the  pont  des  Arts. 

"  We  have  been  chasing  you  for  the  last  week,"  said 
the  first  spokesman.  "At  your  highly  respectable 
hôtel  Saint-Quentin, — whose  immovable  sign,  I  must 
parenthetically  observe,  keeps  its  alternate  red  and 
black  letters  as  in  the  daj^s  of  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau,  — 
the  old  portress  told  us  you  had  gone  into  the  country  ; 
and  yet  I  'm  certain  we  did  not  look  like  creditors  or 
sheriff's  officers.  However,  no  matter.  Rastignac  had 
seen  you  the  night  before  at  the  Bouffons  ;  so  we  took 
courage,  and  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  discover 
whether  you  were  perching  on  the  trees  of  the  Champs- 
Elysées,  or  sleeping  for  two  sous  a  night  in  one  of 
those  philanthropic  dens  where  beggars  are  put  to  bed 
on  taut  ropes,  or  whether  your  bivouac  had  been  set  up, 


The  Magic  Skin.  45 

with  better  luck,  in  a  boudoir.  But  we  could  n't  find  you 
anywhere,  —  neither  on  the  police  records  at  Sainte- 
Pélagie  nor  those  of  La  Force.  Ministries,  theatres, 
convents,  cafés,  libraries,  juries,  newspaper  offices, 
restaurants,  greenrooms,  —  in  short,  every  possible 
hole  and  corner  of  Paris,  good  and  bad,  —  have  been 
explored  ;  we  were  bewailing  the  loss  of  a  man  gifted 
with  genius  enough  to  compel  us  to  look  for  him  either 
in  a  palace  or  a  prison.  We  talked  of  getting  you  can- 
onized as  a  July  hero,  and,  on  my  word  of  honor,  we 
did  regret  you." 

At  this  instant,  Raphael,  surrounded  by  his  friends, 
was  crossing  the  pont  des  Arts,  where,  without  listen- 
ing to  what  was  being  said  to  him,  he  looked  at  the 
Seine  whose  murmuring  waters  reflected  the  lights  of 
Paris.  Above  that  stream,  at  the  very  spot  where  he 
was  lately  about  to  plunge  into  it,  the  prediction  of  the 
old  man  was  accomplished,  the  hour  of  his  death  was 
suddenly  postponed. 

"Yes,  we  did  truly  regret  you,"  said  his  friend,  still 
pursuing  that  theme.  4  6  And  we  wanted  you  for  an  affair, 
an  alliance,  in  which  we  counted  on  you  in  your  character 
of  superior  man  ;  by  that  I  mean  a  man  who  knows  how 
to  put  himself  above  everything,,  Now  listen,  my  dear 
fellow.  The  shuffling  and  the  constitutional  jugglery 
that  goes  on  in  the  royal  conjuring-box  is  worse  than 
ever.  The  infamous  Monarchy  that  was  overthrown  by 
popular  heroism  was  like  a  woman  of  bad  character, 
but  at  least  you  could  laugh  and  banquet  with  her; 
whereas  the  Nation  is  a  cross-grained  virtuous  wife, 
whose  frigid  embraces  we  have  got  to  put  up  with 
whether  we  like  it  or  no.    Now  power,  as  you  very 


46 


The  Magic  Skin. 


well  know,  has  betaken  itself  from  the  Tuileries  into 
journalism, — just  as  the  Budget  changed  quarters  by 
passing  from  the  faubourg  Saint- Germain  to  the  Chaus- 
sée-d'Antin.  But  here  's  something  which  perhaps  you 
don't  know.  The  government  —  that's  to  say,  the 
aristocracy  of  bankers  and  lawyers  who  make  the 
nation,  just  as,  in  the  old  days,  the  priests  made  the 
monarchy  —  feels  the  necessity  of  mystifying  the  good 
people  of  France  with  new  words  and  old  ideas,  in  imi- 
0  tation  of  the  philosophers  of  all  schools,  and  the  strong 
minds  of  all  epochs.  The  question  is  now  to  inculcate 
a  royalist-national  public  opinion,  by  proving  that  we 
are  happier  and  better  for  paying  twelve  hundred  mil- 
lions, thirty-three  centimes,  to  the  nation,  represented 
by  Messrs.  So-and-so,  rather  than  eleven  hundred 
millions,  nine  centimes,  to  a  king  who  said  'I'  instead  of 
'  We.'  To  sum  it  all  up  in  one  word,  a  newspaper,  armed 
with  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  is  about  to 
be  started,  with  the  idea  of  setting  up  an  opposition 
which  shall  content  the  discontented,  and  yet  do  no 
harm  to  the  national  government  of  the  citizen-king. 
Now,  considering  that  we  make  as  much  fun  of  liberty 
as  we  do  of  despotism,  and  quite  as  much  of  religion  as 
of  scepticism,  and  that  to  us  country  is  the  capital, 
where  ideas  can  be  exchanged  and  sold  at  so  much  a 
line,  where  succulent  dinners  and  theatre- stalls  are  to 
be  had  nightly,  where  chartered  libertinage  abounds,  and 
suppers  end  only  on  the  morrow,  and  where  love  goes  for 
so  much  an  hour,  like  the  cabs  ;  and  considering  also  that 
Paris  will  always  be  the  most  adorable  of  all  countries, 
the  country  of  joy  and  liberty  and  wit,  of  pretty  women 
and  scamps  and  good  wine,  and  where,  moreover,  the 


The  Magic  Skin.  *  47 


stick  of  power  can  never  come  down  too  heavily  because 
we  are  close  to  those  who  wield  it,  —  it  has  been  re- 
solved that  We,  true  votaries  of  the  god  Mephistopheles, 
undertake  to  plaster  over  the  public  mind,  patch  up  the 
actors,  nail  some  new  planks  on  the  government  hut, 
physic  the  doctrinaires,  warm  up  the  old  Republicans,  re- 
gild  the  Bonapartists,  and  revictual  the  centre,  provided 
we  are  allowed  to  laugh  in  petto  at  kings  and  peoples, 
and  are  not  forced  to  hold  the  same  opinions  morning 
and  evening,  but  are  free  to  lead  a  merry  life  à  la  Pan- 
urge,  or  more  orientdli,  couched  on  delectable  cushions. 
We  intend  that  you  shall  take  the  reins  of  this  burlesque 
and  macaronic  empire,  and  therefore  we  are  now  con- 
ducting you  to  a  dinner  given  by  the  founder  of  the 
said  newspaper,  a  retired  banker,  who,  not  knowing 
what  to  do  with  his  gold,  is  willing  to  exchange  it  for 
our  genius.  You  '11  be  welcomed  as  a  brother.  We  '11 
hail  you  king  of  the  modern  Fronde,  prince  of  those 
searching  minds  that  nothing  terrifies,  whose  perspi- 
cacity discovers  the  intentions  of  Austria,  England,  or 
Russia  before  Russia,  England,  and  Austria  have  any 
intentions.  Yes,  we  '11  proclaim  you  sovereign  of  the 
intellectual  forces  which  have  furnished  the  world  with 
Mirabeaus  and  Talleyrands  and  Pitts  and  Metternichs, 
in  short,  all  those  bold  Crispins  who  have  gambled  away 
the  destinies  of  an  empire  among  each  other,  just  as 
boors  stake  their  kirschen-wasser  at  dominos.  We 
have  already  held  you  up  as  the  most  intrepid  knight 
that  ever  fearlessly  encountered  Excess,  —  that  splendid 
monster  with  whom  all  untrammelled  thinkers  insist 
on  struggling  ;  we  have  even  declared  that  it  has  not 
yet  vanquished  you.     I  trust  you  will  justify  our 


48 


The  Magic  Skin. 


praises.  Taillefer,  the  amphitryon,  promises  to  sur- 
pass in  this  banquet  the  narrow-minded  saturnalias 
of  our  petty  modern  Luculluses.  He  is  rich  enough 
to  put  grandeur  into  little  things,  and  grace  and  ele- 
gance into  vice  —  Do  }7ou  hear  me,  Raphael  ?  "  de- 
manded the  orator,  suddenly  interrupting  himself. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  young  man,  who  was  less  amazed 
at  the  accomplishment  of  his  wishes,  than  surprised  by 
the  natural  manner  in  which  a  chain  of  circumstances 
had  brought  it  about.  Though  unable  to  believe  in 
occult  influences,  he  could  not  help  wondering  at  the 
curious  chances  of  human  destiny. 

"You  say  yes  as  if  you  were  thinking  of  the 
death  of  your  grandfather,"  cried  the  man  nearest 
to  him. 

"Ah!"  replied  Raphael,  in  a  candid  tone  which 
brought  a  laugh  from  this  group  of  young  writers,  the 
hope  of  rising  France,  "I  am  thinking,  friends,  that 
we  are  in  a  fair  way  to  become  great  scoundrels. 
Hitherto  we  have  done  our  impiety  before  the  shrine 
of  Bacchus  ;  we  have  questioned  life  when  drunk,  and 
estimated  men  and  things  while  digesting.  Virgin  in 
act,  we  were  bold  in  words  ;  but  now,  branded  by  the 
red-hot  iron  of  politics,  we  are  about  to  enter  the 
galleys  and  lose  all  illusions.  If  one  does  n't  any 
longer  believe  in  the  devil,  it  is  allowable  to  regret  the 
paradise  of  youth  and  the  da}Ts  of  our  innocence,  when 
we  devoutly  put  out  our  tongues  to  a  priest  to  receive 
the  sacrament.  Ah,  my  good  friends,  if  we  found  so 
much  happiness  in  committing  our  first  sins,  it  was 
because  remorse  gave  them  spice  and  flavor,  whereas 
now  —  " 


The  Magic  Skin. 


49 


"Oh!  now,"  said  the  first  spokesman,  "there  is 
nothing  left  but  —  " 

"  —  but  what?  "  cried  a  third. 
"  Crime! " 

"  That 9  s  a  word  that  carries  with  it  the  height  of  a 
gibbet,  and  the  depths  of  the  Seine,"  retorted  Raphael. 

"  You  don't  understand  me  ;  I 'm  talking  of  political 
crime.  For  the  last  twenty-four  hours  I  covet  but  one 
career,  —  that  of  a  conspirator.  I  won't  say  that  to- 
morrow my  fancy  may  not  have  taken  wings  ;  but 
to-night  the  pale  face  of  our  civilization,  as  flat  as  the 
level  of  a  railroad,  makes  my  soul  leap  with  disgust. 
I 'm  seized  with  a  passion  for  grand  emotions,  for  the 
horrors  of  the  retreat  from  Moscow,  for  the  excitements 
of  a  Red  Rover  and  the  life  of  a  smuggler.  As  there 
is  no  longer  a  La  Trappe  in  France,  I  should  like  to 
have  a  Botany  Bay,  —  a  sort  of  infirmary  for  little  Lord 
Byrons,  who,  after  soiling  and  rumpling  their  lives  as 
they  do  their  napkins  at  dinner,  have  nothing  better  to 
think  of  than  blowing  up  the  nation,  cutting  their 
throats,  conspiring  for  the  republic,  or  howling  for 
war." 

r  * 

"  Emile,"  cried  the  man  nearest  to  Raphael,  address- 
ing the  speaker  excitedly,  "  on  my  word  of  honor,  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  revolution  of  July,  I  should  have 
made  myself  a  priest,  so  as  to  lead  an  animal  life 
down  in  the  depths  of  some  country  region,  and  — " 

"  —  read  your  breviary  every  day?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  're  a  pretty  fellow  !  " 

"  Well,  don't  we  read  the  newspapers  every  day?  99 
"Good!  for  a  journalist  —  but  hold  your  tongue, 
4 


50 


The  Magic  Shin. 


we  are  walking  among  a  crowd  of  subscribers.  Jour- 
nalism, don't  you  see,  is  the  religion  of  modern  society, 
and  it  is  certainly  an  improvement  on  the  old." 
"How  so?" 

"  Its  pontiffs  are  not  expected  to  believe  in  it  —  nor 
the  people  either." 

Chatting  thus,  like  worthy  fellows  who  have  known 
De  Vtris  Illustribus  these  many  years,  they  reached 
a  private  house  in  the  rue  Joubert. 

Emile  was  a  journalist  who  had  won  more  fame  by 
doing  nothing  than  others  had  got  out  of  their  suc- 
cesses. He  was  a  bold  critic,  with  plenty  of  sarcasm 
and  dash,  and  possessing  all  the  virtues  of  his  defects. 
Frank  and  jovial,  he  uttered  his  epigrams  to  the  face 
of  a  friend,  whom  he  would  loyally  and  courageously 
defend  behind  his  back.  He  scoffed  at  everything, 
even  his  own  future.  Always  impecunious,  he  re- 
mained, like  most  men  of  his  calibre,  plunged  in  a 
state  of  utter  indolence,  flinging  the  makings  of  a  book 
in  a  single  witticism  at  the  heads  of  men  who  did  not 
know  how  to  put  a  witty  saying  into  their  own  books. 
Prodigal  of  promises  which  he  never  performed,  he  had 
made  his  fame  a  comfortable  cushion  on  which  he 
slept,  —  running  no  small  risk  of  waking  up  some  day, 
an  old  man  in  a  hospital.  For  the  rest,  faithful  in 
friendship  even  to  the  scaffold,  braggart  of  cynicism, 
and  simple  as  a  child,  he  never  worked  except  by  fits 
and  starts,  and  then  only  from  sheer  necessity. 

"  We  shall  have,  to  use  the  words  of  maître  Alco- 
fribas,  a  famous  tronçon  de  chiere  Me"  he  said  to 
Raphael,  showing  him  the  stands  of  rare  flowers  which 
perfumed  and  decorated  the  staircase. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


51 


"  I  like  entrances  and  halls  that  are  well- warmed 
and  well-carpeted,"  answered  Raphael.  "  Luxury  that 
begins  at  the  peristyle  is  too  rare  in  France.  I  already 
feel  myself  a  new  man." 

"  We  shall  drink  and  laugh  once  more,  my  poor 
Raphael  —  Ha,  ha,"  he  continued.  "  I  hope  that  you 
and  I  will  come  off  conquerors,  and  walk  over  the 
heads  of  those  fellows." 

So  saying  he  pointed  with  a  mocking  gesture  to  the 
company  assembled  in  a  salon  resplendent  with  lights 
and  gilding,  where  they  were  instantly  welcomed  by  a 
number  of  the  most  remarkable  young  men  in  Paris. 
One  had  latety  revealed  a  great  talent,  and  had  painted 
a  picture  that  rivalled  in  fame  the  art  of  the  Empire. 
Another  had  just  published  a  book  full  of  sap,  stamped 
with  an  air  of  literary  disdain,  which  pointed  out  new 
lines  for  modern  thought.  Farther  on,  a  sculptor, 
whose  rugged  face  bespoke  a  vigorous  genius,  was 
talking  with  one  of  those  cold  critics  who,  as  the  fancy 
takes  them,  either  refuse  to  see  the  signs  of  superiority 
or  imagine  them  everywhere.  Here,  the  wittiest  of  our 
caricaturists,  he  of  the  mischievous  eye  and  the  satiri- 
cal lip,  was  on  the  lookout  for  epigrams  which  his 
crayon  would  reproduce.  There,  too,  the  audacious 
young  writer  who  knew  the  art  of  distilling  the  quintes- 
sence of  political  thought  and  of  condensing,  as  he 
played  with  it,  the  mind  of  a  redundant  wTriter,  was 
talking  with  a  poet  whose  works  would  crush  all  others 
of  the  present  day  if  his  talent  were  as  strong  as  his 
hatred.  Both  were  trying  not  to  speak  the  truth  and 
not  to  lie,  all  the  while  addressing  each  other  with 
sweetest  flattery.    A  celebrated  musician  was  satiri- 


52 


Tlie  Magic  Skin. 


cafly  consoling  in  C  flat  a  newly  fledged  deputy  who  had 
recently  had  a  fall  in  the  tribune,  without  however  do- 
ing himself  much  injury.  Young  authors  without  style 
were  grouped  with  young  authors  without  ideas,  prose- 
writers  full  of  poetry  with  prosaic  poets.  A  poor  Saint- 
Simonian,  simple  enough  to  put  faith  in  his  own  doc- 
trine, observing  these  incompleted  beings,  coupled  them 
charitably,  wishing  perhaps  to  convert  them  into  be- 
lievers of  his  order. 

Besides  all  these,  there  were  two  or  three  learned 
men  capable  of  putting  nitrogen  into  the  conversation, 
and  several  writers  of  comic  drama  flinging  about  them 
an  ephemeral  brightness  which,  like  the  sparkling  of 
diamonds,  gave  neither  warmth  nor  light.  A  few  para- 
doxical beings,  laughing  in  their  sleeves  at  the  men  who 
adopted  their  admirations  or  their  contempt  for  men 
and  things,  were  already  at  work,  with  that  double- 
faced  policy  b}T  which  the}'  conspire  against  all  systems 
and  take  sides  with  none.  The  carping  critic  without 
real  impulse,  who  blows  his  nose  during  a  cavatina  at 
the  opera,  cries  "Bravo!"  before  everybody  else  but 
contradicts  those  who  precede  him,  was  present  watching 
his  chance  to  appropriate  the  sayings  of  witty  men. 
Among  the  whole  company,  probably  five  had  a  dis- 
tinguished future  ;  a  dozen  were  likely  to  obtain  some 
passing  fame  ;  as  for  the  rest  they  might,  like  other 
mediocrities,  adopt  the  famous  lie  of  Louis  XVIII. , 
"  Union  and  oblivion."  The  amphitryon  of  the  feast 
showed  the  anxious  gayety  of  a  man  who  is  spending 
six  thousand  francs.  From  time  to  time  his  e}*es 
turned  impatiently  to  the  door  of  the  salon,  as  if  to  call 
up  some  belated  guest  who  kept  him  waiting.  Presently 


The  Magic  Skin. 


53 


a  fat  little  man  arrived  who  was  received  with  a  flatter- 
ing murmur  of  voices.  It  was  the  notary  who,  that  very 
morning,  had  drawn  up  the  papers  which  called  the 
new  journal  into  existence.  A  footman  dressed  in 
black  opened  the  doors  of  a  vast  dining-room,  where 
each  guest  unceremoniously  looked  for  his  place  at  an 
immense  table. 

Raphael  threw  a  glance  around  the  salon  before 
leaving  it.  Assuredly,  his  wish  was  so  far  completely 
satisfied.  Gold  and  silken  sturfs  filled  the  apartment  ; 
rich  candelabras,  holding  innumerable  wax-candles, 
brought  out  the  slightest  details  of  the  gilded  friezes, 
the  delicate  chiselling  of  the  marbles,  and  the  sump- 
tuous colors  of  the  furniture  ;  rare  plants,  in  bamboo 
baskets  artistically  woven,  filled  the  room  with  fra- 
grance ;  even  the  draperies  had  an  air  of  unpretending 
elegance.  There  was  throughout  an  inexpressible  poetic 
grace,  whose  charm  acted  powerfully  on  the  imagination 
of  the  penniless  man. 

"An  income  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  is  a  very 
pretty  commentary  on  the  catechism,  and  helps  us  won- 
derfully in  putting  morality  into  action  !  "  he  said,  sigh- 
ing. "  Yes,  my  virtue  was  never  meant  to  go  a-foot. 
To  me,  vice  is  a  garret,  a  ragged  coat,  a  shabby  hat 
in  winter,  and  debts  to  the  porter.  Ha  !  I  wish  to  live 
in  the  midst  of  such  luxury  as  this  for  a  year,  six 
months,  no  matter  how  long  —  and  then  die.  I  shall 
then  have  known,  exhausted,  and  annihilated  a  thou- 
sand lives." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  cried  Emile,  who  was  listening  to 
him,  "  you  are  mistaking  the  ease  of  a  money-changer  for 
happiness.    You  would  grow  sick  of  wealth  as  soon  as 


54 


The  Magie  Skin. 


you  found  out  that  it  deprives  you  of  all  chance  of  be- 
coming a  superior  man.  Between  the  poverty  of  riches 
and  the  riches  of  poverty  no  true  artist  has  ever  hesi- 
tated. We  must  struggle  —  and  you  know  it.  But 
now  prepare  your  stomach  ;  behold  !  "  he  cried,  pointing 
with  heroic  gesture  to  the  triply  sacred,  gorgeous,  and 
reassuring  spectacle  presented  by  the  dining-room  of 
the  crapulent  capitalist.  u  That  man  whom  you  see 
there/'  he  said  pointing  him  out,  6  6  has  actually  taken 
the  trouble  of  amassing  his  money  for  us.  He  is  a  kind 
of  sponge  which  the  naturalists  forgot  to  include  in  the 
order  of  the  polypi,  and  it  is  our  bounden  duty  to 
squeeze  him  carefully  before  his  heirs  can  suck  at  him. 
Just  notice  the  elegance  of  those  bas-reliefs  round 
the  walls?  and  the  pictures,  the  lustres  —  what  well- 
selected  luxury  !  If  we  are  to  believe  envious  folks 
and  those  who  are  alwa}Ts  searching  into  the  hidden 
springs  of  life,  that  man  murdered  his  best  friend,  a 
German,  and  the  mother  of  that  friend  during  the 
Revolution.  Would  you  think  there  were  such  crimes 
under  the  grizzly  hair  of  that  venerable  Taillefer?  He 
looks  like  a  good  fellow.  See  how  the  silver  sparkles  ; 
if  he  were  what  the}7  say  he  is,  would  n't  every  ray  of 
its  glitter  be  a  dagger  in  his  heart  ?  Pooh,  better  be- 
lieve in  Mohammed  at  once  !  Yet,  if  the  world  says 
true,  here  are  thirty  men  of  honor  and  talent  about  to 
eat  the  bodies  and  drink  the  blood  of  a  family  :  and  you 
and  I,  models  of  candid  youth  and  enthusiasm,  we  are 
accomplices  in  the  deed.  I  've  a  good  mind  to  go  up 
and  ask  our  capitalist  if  he  is  a  murderer." 

IC  Not  now,"  cried  Eaphael  ;  "  wait  till  he  is  dead- 
drunk,  and  then  we  shall  have  dined." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


55 


The  two  friends  took  their  places,  laughing.  At  first, 
and  with  a  glance  more  rapid  than  a  word,  each  guest 
paid  tribute  of  admiration  to  the  sumptuous  elegance  of 
the  table,  white  as  new-fallen  snow,  on  which  the  little 
hummocks  of  napkins  were  symmetrically  placed.  The 
glasses  shed  prismatic  colors  in  their  starry  reflections  ; 
wax  candles  cast  an  infinitude  of  light  ;  the  viands, 
served  under  silver  covers,  sharpened  both  appetite  and 
curiosity.  Words  were  few.  The  guests  looked  at  each 
other.  Madeira  was  passed  round.  Then  the  first  course 
was  served  in  all  its  glory.  It  would  have  done  honor 
to  the  late  Cambacérès,  and  Brillât- Savarin  might  have 
written  of  it.  Claret  and  burgundj^,  white  and  red, 
were  served  with  regal  profusion.  This  opening  of  the 
feast  might  be  likened  to  the  prologue  of  a  classic 
drama.  The  second  act  became  somewhat  talkative. 
Each  guest,  changing  his  wines  according  to  his  fancy, 
had  drunk  sufficiently  to  take  part,  when  the  sumptuous 
course  was  removed,  in  excited  discussions  ;  pale  faces 
were  already  flushed,  noses  were  slightly  purple,  faces 
burned,  and  eyes  glittered.  During  this  aurora  of  in- 
toxication, the  talk  did  not  pass  beyond  the  limits  of 
courtesy  ;  but,  little  by  little,  sarcasms  and  witty 
speeches  escaped  certain  lips  ;  then  calumny  gently 
raised  its  serpent-head  and  protruded  its  forked  tongue  ; 
here  and  there  a  few  crafty  souls  listened  attentively, 
endeavoring  to  hold  themselves  in  hand.  The  second 
course  found  the  company  thoroughly  excited.  Each 
man  ate  as  he  talked,  and  talked  while  he  ate,  without 
heed  to  the  quantity  of  liquid  that  he  drank,  so  appro- 
priate and  perfumed  were  the  wines,  and  so  contagious 
the  example. 


56 


The  Magic  Skin. 


Taillefer  piqued  himself  on  exciting  his  guests,  and 
ordered  on  those  terrible  wines  of  the  Rhone  region,  the 
hot  Tokay,  and  the  old,  head}'  Rousillon.  Like  un- 
bridled post-horses  let  loose  at  a  relay,  the  guests, 
lashed  by  the  fires  of  champagne  impatiently  awaited 
and  abundantly  served,  let  their  minds  gallop  into 
vague  discussions  to  which  no  one  listened,  recounted 
tales  that  had  no  auditors,  and  began  over  and  over 
again  a  series  of  cross-questionings  to  which  there  came 
no  reply.  Orgy  alone  had  a  voice  that  made  itself  heard, 
—  the  voice  of  a  hundred  confused  clamors  which  rose 
and  swelled  like  the  crescendos  of  Rossini.  Then  came 
enticing  toasts,  boastful  speeches,  and  provocations. 
All  present  renounced  intellectual  capacity  to  claim 
that  of  vats  and  tuns.  It  seemed  as  though  each  man 
possessed  two  voices  ;  and  there  came  a  moment  when 
all  the  masters  talked  at  once,  and  the  footmen  smiled. 
But  this  medley  of  words,  where  paradoxes  of  doubtful 
brilliancy  and  truths  grotesquely  dressed  up  jostled  each 
other  amid  shouts  and  queries,  arbitrar}7  assertions  and 
silly  sayings,  —  like  the  thick  of  a  combat  hurtling  with 
bullets,  balls,  and  grape-shot,  —  would  doubtless  have 
interested  some  philosopher  by  the  singularity  of  the 
thoughts  that  came  to  the  surface,  and  amazed  a  poli- 
tician by  the  oddity  of  the  proposed  systems.  The  whole 
scene  was  at  once  a  lesson  and  a  picture.  Philosophies, 
religions,  moralities  of  every  latitude,  governments, 
indeed,  all  the  great  acts  of  human  intelligence,  fell  under 
a  scythe  as  sweeping  as  that  of  Time  ;  and  an  observer 
might  have  found  himself  puzzled  to  decide  whether 
it  were  handled  by  drunken  Wisdom,  or  by  Drunken- 
ness grown  wise  and  clear-sighted.    Carried  away  by 


The  Magic  Skin.  57 

# 

a  sort  of  whirlwind,  these  excited  minds,  like  angry 
waves  rushing  at  a  cliff,  sought  to  shake  the  laws  that 
float  civilizations,  — unconsciously  doing  the  will  of  God, 
who  has  left  good  and  evil  within  the  bounds  of  nature, 
keeping  for  himself  alone  the  secret  of  their  perpetual 
warfare.  The  discussions,  growing  more  and  more 
burlesque  and  furious,  became  at  last,  as  it  were,  a 
witches'  sabbath  of  intellects.  Between  the  dismal 
jests  of  these  children  of  the  Eevolution  over  the  birth 
of  their  new  journal,  and  the  vigorous  talk  of  the  jovial 
topers  at  the  birth  of  Gargantua  lay  the  vast  ab3Tss 
which  separates  the  nineteenth  from  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. The  latter  made  ready  destruction  with  a  laugh  ; 
ours  laughs  amid  the  ruins. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  }'Oung  man  whom  I  see 
over  there?"  asked  the  notary,  pointing  to  Raphael. 
"  Did  n't  I  hear  some  one  call  him  Valentin?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  Valentin  short  off?"  cried 
Émile,  laughing.  "  Raphael  de  Valentin,  if  you  please. 
We  bear  sable,  an  eagle  displayed  or,  crowned  argent, 
beaked  and  taloned  gules  ;  with  a  glorious  motto  :  Non 
cecidit  animus.  Let  me  tell  you  that  we  are  no  found- 
ling, but  a  descendant  of  the  Emperor  Valens,  progenitor 
of  the  Valentinois,  founder  of  the  cities  Valence  in  France, 
and  Valencia  in  Spain,  legitimate  heir  of  the  empire  of 
the  East.  If  we  allow  Mahmoud  to  sit  upon  our  throne 
of  Constantinople,  it  is  out  of  pure  good  nature  and 
lack  of  soldiers  and  money."  Here  Emile  drew  a  crown 
with  his  fork  in  the  air  above  Raphael's  head. 

The  nota^  reflected  for  a  moment  and  then  began 
to  drink  again,  making  a  deprecating  gesture,  by  which 
he  seemed  to  admit  that  he  could  not  connect  his 


58  The  Magie  Skin. 

practice  with  the  cities  of  Valence,  Constantinople, 
the  sultan,  the  emperor,  or  the  Valentinois. 

"  The  destruction  of  those  ant-hills  called  Babylon, 
Tyre,  Carthage,  or  Venice,  inevitably  crushed  by  the 
foot  of  any  giant  who  stepped  their  way,  was  a  warn- 
ing given  to  man  by  some  demon  power,"  said  Claude 
Vignon,  a  species  of  slave,  hired  to  do  Bossuet  at  ten 
sous  a  line. 

"  Moses,  Sylla,  Louis  XL,  Richelieu,  Robespierre, 
and  Napoleon,  are  perhaps  but  one  man,  reappearing 
across  the  civilizations  like  a  comet  across  the  sky," 
replied  a  disciple  of  Ballanche. 

"  Why  attempt  to  fathom  Providence?  "  said  Canalis, 
the  maker  of  ballads. 

"Providence  indeed!"  cried  the  critic,  interrupting 
him.    64 1  know  nothing  under  the  sun  so  elastic." 

"  But,  monsieur,  Louis  XIV.  sent  more  men  to  their 
death  in  building  the  aqueduct  between  Maintenon  and 
Versailles  than  the  Convention  guillotined  to  obtain 
just  taxes,  equality  before  the  law,  the  nationality  of 
France,  and  the  equal  division  of  family  property,"  said 
Massol,  a  young  man  who  had  become  a  republican 
for  want  of  a  syllable  before  his  name. 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  Moreau  de  l'Oise,  a  worthy 
land-owner,  "you  who  drank  blood  for  wine,  do  you 
mean  to  leave  men's  heads  on  their  shoulders  this 
time?" 

"Why  should  we,  monsieur?  Don't  you  think  the 
principles  of  social  order  are  worth  some  sacrifices  ?  " 

"Bixiou!  hi!  What's-his-name,  here,  the  republi- 
can, declares  the  land-owner's  head  must  be  sacrificed," 
said  a  young  man  to  his  neighbor. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


59 


"  Men  and  events  are  nothing,"  said  the  republican, 
continuing  his  theory  amid  a  chorus  of  hiccoughs  ; 
"  principles  and  ideas  are  all  that  should  be  considered 
in  politics  and  philosophy." 

"Horrors!  do  you  mean  to  say  you  would  n't  mind 
killing  your  friends  for  a  —  " 

"  Hey  !  monsieur  ;  the  man  who  feels  remorse  is  the 
true  villain,  for  he  has  some  idea  of  virtue  ;  whereas 
Peter  the  Great  and  the  Duke  of  Alba  were  systems 
—  Monbard,  the  pirate,  was  an  organization." 

"  But  can't  society  do  without  your  systems  and 
your  organizations?"  demanded  Canalis. 

"  Oh,  I  '11  agree  to  that,"  cried  the  republican. 

"Pah!  your  stupid  republic  makes  me  sick  at  my 
stomach.  Presently  we  sha'n't  be  able  to  carve  a 
capon  without  running  against  some  agrarian  law." 

"Your  principles  are  fine,  my  little  Brutus  stuffed 
with  truffles.  But  you  are  like  my  valet  ;  the  fellow 
is  so  possessed  with  the  lust  of  cleanliness  that  if  I 
were  to  let  him  brush  my  clothes  as  much  as  he  liked, 
I  should  go  naked." 

"  You  are  all  stupid  dolts,  — you  want  to  cleanse  the 
nation  with  a  tooth-brush,"  retorted  the  republican. 
"  According  to  your  ideas,  justice  is  more  dangerous 
than  thieves." 

"  Hear  !  hear  !  "  exclaimed  Desroches,  the  lawyer. 

"What  bores  they  are  with  their  politics!"  said 
Cardot,  the  notary.  "Shut  the  door.  There's  no 
science,  and  no  virtue  that  is  worth  a  drop  of  blood. 
If  we  tried  to  liquidate  truth,  ten  to  one  we  should  find 
her  bankrupt." 

4  1  Well,  no  doubt  it  would  cost  less  to  amuse  our- 


60 


The  Magic  Skin. 


selves  with  evil,  than  to  quarrel  about  good  ;  and  for 
my  part  I  would  willingly  exchange  every  word  de- 
claimed in  the  tribune  during  the  last  forty  years, 
for  a  trout,  or  a  sketch  by  Charlet,  or  a  story  of 
Perrault's." 

"And  right  enough,  too,  —  pass  me  the  asparagus, 
—  for,  after  all,  liberty  gives  birth  to  anarchy,  and 
anarchy  leads  to  despotism,  and  despotism  brings  back 
liberty.  Millions  of  beings  have  perished  without 
being  able  to  make  any  system  triumph.  Is  n't  it 
plainly  a  vicious  circle,  in  which  the  moral  world  will 
turn  forever?  When  a  man  thinks  he  has  made  a 
perfect  reformation,  he  has  simply  displaced  things." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  "  cried  Curs}T,  the  writer  of  farces,  "  then 
I  propose  a  toast  to  Charles  X.,  the  father  of  liberty." 

"  Why  not?  "  said  Emile  ;  "  when  despotism  is  in  the 
laws  liberty  is  in  the  mind  and  morals,  and  vice  versa." 

"  Then  let  us  drink  to  the  imbecility  of  the  power 
which  gives  us  so  much  power  over  imbeciles,"  said  the 
banker. 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  Napoleon,  you  must  admit, 
gave  us  glory,"  cried  an  officer  of  marines,  who  had 
never  been  outside  the  harbor  of  Brest. 

"Pooh!  glory?  a  forlorn  commodity.  It  costs  dear 
and  does  n't  last.  It  is  the  egotism  of  great  men,  just 
as  happiness  is  that  of  fools  —  " 

"  What  a  happy  fellow  you  must  be  !  " 

"  The  man  who  invented  ditches  was  doubtless  some 
weakling,  —  for  society  only  benefits  the  puny  beings. 
Those  who  stand  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  moral 
world  —  the  savage  and  the  thinker  —  have  an  equal 
horror  of  property." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


61 


"Fine  talk!"  cried  Cardot.     "If  there  were  no 
property  how  could  we  make  conveyances?" 
"  These  green  peas  are  ideally  delicious  —  " 
"  And  the  curate  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  the  very 
next  day  —  " 

"  Dead!  who  is  talking  of  death?  don't  joke  about 
it.    I 've  got  an  uncle  —  " 

"  And  you  are  resigned  to  lose  him?  " 
"  That 's  not  a  fair  question." 

"  Listen  to  me,  gentlemen,  and  I  '11  tell  you  how  to 
hill  an  uncle.  [Hush  !  Listen  !]  Have  an  uncle,  short 
and  fat,  and  seventy,  at  least  ;  that  is  the  best  kind  of 
uncle  [sensation].  Make  him,  under  any  pretence  you 
please,  eat  a  Strasburg  pie  —  " 

"Eh !  but  my  uncle  is  tall  and  lean  and  miserly  and 
sober.." 

"  Oh,  those  uncles  are  monsters  who  misuse  life." 

"Well,"  said  the  instructor  in  uncles,  continuing, 
"  tell  him,  while  he  is  digesting,  that  his  banker  has 
failed—" 

"  Suppose  he  survives  it?" 

"  Then  send  him  a  pretty  girl  —  " 

"  Malibran's  voice  has  lost  two  notes." 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"Ho  !  ho  !  yes  and  no  ;  that 's  the  history  of  all  dis- 
cussions, religious,  political,  and  literary  ;  they  never 
get  beyond  that.  Man  is  a  buffoon,  who  dances  at  the 
edge  of  a  precipice." 

"  To  listen  to  you,  one  would  think  I  was  a  fool." 

"  On  the  contrary,  that 's  precisely  because  you  don't 
listen  to  me." 


62 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  Education  !  what  nonsense  it  is  !  Monsieur  Heinef- 
fettermach  declares  there  are  more  than  one  thousand 
million  printed  volumes,  and  man's  life  is  only  long 
enough  to  let  him  read  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand. 
And  so,  explain  to  me,  if  you  please,  the  meaning  of 
that  word  '  education.'  Some  people  think  it  consists 
in  knowing  the  names  of  Alexander's  horse,  of  the  dog 
Bérécillo,  of  the  Seigneur  des  Accords,  and  ignoring 
that  of  the  man  to  whom  we  owe  the  floating  of  wood 
and  the  making  of  porcelain.  6  Education  '  to  others 
means  the  capacity  to  burn  a  will  and  live  like  honest 
folk,  beloved  and  respected,  instead  of  stealing  a  watch 
for  the  tenth  time  with  the  five  aggravating  circum- 
stances, and  dying  on  the  place  de  Grève  hated  and 
dishonored." 

"  Will  Nathan  continue  his  paper?" 

"  Ah  !  his  contributors  have  such  wit." 

4  '  How  about  Canalis  ?  " 

"  A  great  man  ;  don't  talk  of  him." 

"  You  are  drunk." 

"  The  immediate  result  of  a  constitution  is  to  lower 
the  level  of  intelligence.  Arts,  sciences,  public  build- 
ings, are  all  eaten  into  by  an  awful  selfishness,  the 
leprosy  of  our  day.  Take  your  three  hundred  bour- 
geois seated  on  benches  ;  every  man  of  them  thinks  of 
planting  poplar-trees,  and  of  nothing  else.  Despotism 
does  great  things  illegally,  liberty  won't  trouble  herself 
to  do  legally  even  the  smallest  things  —  " 

"  The  present  system  of  education,"  said  a  partisan  of 
despotic  power,  "  turns  out  human  minds  like  five-franc 
pieces  from  the  mint.  Individuality  disappears  among 
a  people  who  are  flattened  to  one  level  by  education." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


63 


"  And  yet,  is  n't  the  very  object  of  society  to  procure 
happiness  for  all?"  demanded  the  Saint-Simonian. 

"  When  you  get  an  income  of  fifty  thousand  francs 
you  won't  think  about  the  happiness  of  the  masses. 
But  if  you  are  captivated  by  the  noble  passion  for 
humanity,  go  to  Madagascar  ;  there 's  a  nice  little 
people  all  ready  to  your  hand,  brand-new,  to  Saint- 
Simonize  and  classify  and  label  ;  but  here  in  France 
we  all  live  in  our  particular  cells,  as  a  key  turns  in  its 
own  lock.  Porters  are  porters,  and  ninnies  are  fools, 
without  needing  a  diploma  from  a  college  of  Fathers  ; 
ha!  ha!" 

"You  are  a  Carlist!  " 

"  Why  should  n't  I  be?  I  like  despotism  ;  it  shows 
a  contempt  for  the  human  race.  I  can't  hate  kings,  they 
are  so  amusing.  To  sit  on  a  throne  in  a  chamber  about 
thirty  million  leagues  from  the  sun,  do  you  call  that 
nothing?"  — 

"  But  let  us  take  a  larger  view  of  civilization,"  said  a 
man  of  science,  who  had  undertaken,  on  behalf  of  an 
inattentive  sculptor,  a  disquisition  on  the  origin  of 
society  and  autochthonous  peoples.  "At  the  birth  of 
nations  power  was,  as  it  were,  material,  single,  brutal  ; 
then,  as  aggregation  took  place,  governments  were  car- 
ried on  by  the  decomposition,  as  it  were,  of  the  primi- 
tive power.  For  instance,  in  remote  antiquity  power 
was  theocratic;  the  priest  held  the  sword  and  the 
censer.  Later,  there  were  two  sacerdotal  powers  :  the 
pontiff,  and  the  king.  To-day  our  society,  the  last  ex- 
treme of  civilization,  has  distributed  power  among  a 
number  of  combined  forces,  called  by  such  names  as 
industry,  thought,  wealth,  speech.    No  longer  possess- 


64 


The  Magic  Skin. 


ing  unity,  power  tends  toward  a  social  dissolution  to 
which  there  is  no  barrier  except  self-interest.  We  no 
longer  rest  upon  religion  nor  upon  material  strength, 
but  upon  intellect.  Is  theory  as  powerful  as  the 
sword  ?  is  discussion  as  strong  as  action  ?  there  5s  the 
question." 

"Intellect  has  killed  everything,"  cried  the  Carlist. 
"Absolute  liberty  drags  nations  to  suicide;  they  are 
sick  and  tired  of  success,  like  a  British  millionnaire." 

4 6  What  next  ?  Where  will  these  ideas  of  yours  land 
you?  You  ridicule  all  power,  and  what  is  that  but 
the  worn-out  vulgarity  of  denying  God?  You  have 
no  beliefs.  The  age  is  like  an  old  sultan  given 
over  to  debauchery  ;  and  that  ?s  why  jour  Lord  Byron, 
in  final  despair  of  poetry,  chanted  the  passions  of 
crime.  " 

"  Do  you  know,"  remarked  Horace  Bianchon,  who 
was  now  completely  drunk  "  that  one  dose  more  or  less 
of  phosphorus  makes  a  man  of  genius  or  a  villain,  a 
wit  or  an  idiot,  a  virtuous  man  or  a  criminal  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  talk  thus  of  virtue,"  cried  De  Cursy  ; 
"  of  virtue,  the  key-note  of  dramas,  the  backbone  of 
theatres,  the  foundation  of  all  courts  of  justice? 

"Hold  your  tongue,  animal!  Your  virtue  is  like 
Achilles  without  his  heel,"  retorted  Bixiou. 

"Your  health!" 

"  Will  you  bet  that  I  can  drink  a  bottle  of  champagne 
at  a  flash?" 

"  What  a  flash  of  wit  !  "  sneered  Bixiou. 

"  They  are  as  drunk  as  plough-boys,"  said  a  young 
man  who  tipped  a  good  deal  of  his  wine  into  his  waist- 
coat. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


65 


"Yes,  monsieur;  the  government  of  the  day  is  the 
art  of  putting  public  opinion  into  power." 

"  Public  opinion  !  the  most  depraved  of  all  prosti- 
tutes !  To  hear  you  men  of  morality  and  politics,  we 
must  believe  in  your  dogmas  against  every  law  of  nature 
and  conviction  and  conscience.  Bah  !  all  is  true,  and 
all  is  false.  If  society  gives  us  down  pillows,  she  makes 
it  up  by  gout  ;  just  as  she  puts  up  law  to  modify  justice, 
and  colds  in  the  head  as  a  set-off  against  cashmere 
shawls  —  " 

"Monster!"  cried  Emile,  interrupting  the  misan- 
thropist, "  what  do  you  mean  by  slandering  civilization 
in  presence  of  such  wines,  such  viands,  such  delicacies 
up  to  our  very  chins  ?  Put  your  teeth  into  this  venison, 
but  don't  bite  your  own  mother." 

"Is  it  my  fault,  pray,  that  Catholicism  has  put  a 
million  of  gods  into  a  sack  of  flour,  that  all  republics 
end  in  a  Robespierre,  that  royalty  hangs  between  the 
assassination  of  Henri  IV.  and  the  decapitation  of  Louis 
XVI.,  or  that  liberalism  turns  into  a  La  Fayette?" 

"  Did  you  embrace  him  in  July?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  hold  your  tongue,  sceptic." 

"  Sceptics  are  conscientious  men." 

"  They  have  no  conscience." 

"  What  do  you  mean?    The}?'  have  two." 

"Discounting  heaven!  there  you  are  with  your 
commercial  ideas.  The  ancient  religions  were  only 
the  happy  development  of  physical  pleasure  ;  but  we 
have  developed  hope  and  a  soul  ;  that  is  progress." 

"Hey!  my  good  friends;  what  can  you  expect  of 
an  age  stinking  with  politics?"  asked  Nathan.  "What 

5 


66 


The  Magic  Skin. 


was  the  fate  of  the  •  King  of  Bohemia  and  his  seven 
castles  ?  '  the  wittiest  conception  —  " 

"That?"  screamed  the  critic,  from  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  —  phrases,  drawn  for  luck  out  of  a  hat  : 
a  book  written  in  a  madhouse  —  " 

1  8  You  're  a  fool  I  " 

"  You  're  a  scoundrel  !  " 

"Oh,  oh!" 

"Ah,  ah!" 

"They'll  fight." 

"  No.  they  won't." 

"  To-morrow,  monsieur  " 

"  At  once,"  replied  Nathan. 

"  Come,  come,  you  are  both  honorable  men." 

"  You  're  another."  said  the  aggressor. 

"  Neither  of  them  can  stand  upright. " 

"Can't  I?"  said  the  bellicose  Nathan,  attempting 
to  get  upon  his  feet  like  a  stag-beetle.  He  threw  a 
stupid  look  round  the  table,  then,  as  if  exhausted  by 
the  effort,  he  fell  back  in  his  chair,  dropped  his  head, 
and  was  silent. 

""Wouldn't  it  have  been  funny,"  said  the  critic  to 
the  man  next  him.  "if  I  had  fought  a  duel  about  a 
book  I  never  read  ?  " 

"  Emile,  look  out  for  your  coat,  your  neighbor  is 
turning  pale." 

"  Kant,  monsieur?  Only  a  balloon  sent  up  to  amuse 
fools.  Materialism  and  spiritualism  are  two  pretty 
battledores  with  which  humbugs  toss  about  the  same 
shuttlecock.  Say  that  God  be  in  all,  according  to 
Spinoza,  or  that  all  comes  from  God.  according  to 
Saint  Paul.  —  idiots  !  opening  and  shutting  a  door, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


67 


is  n't  that  the  same  action  ?  Does  the  egg  come  from 
the  fowl,  or  the  fowl  from  the  egg  ?  answer  me  that,  for 
it  is  the  whole  of  science." 

44  Ninny  !  "  cried  the  man  of  science,  "  the  question 
you  ask  is  chopped  in  two  by  a  fact." 

"What  fact?" 

uThe  chairs  of  professors  were  not  made  for  phil- 
osophy, but  philosophy-  for  the  chairs.  Put  on  your 
spectacles  and  read  the  budget." 

"  Thieves!" 

"  Imbeciles  !  " 

4 '  Scoundrels!" 

"Dupes!" 

44  Where  else  but  in  Paris,  would  you  find  such  a 
brilliant  and  rapid  interchange  of  thought,"  cried 
Bixiou,  in  a  deep  bass  voice. 

44  Come,  Bixiou,  do  us  a  classic  farce." 

44  What  shall  it  be  ;  the  nineteenth  century?  " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  Listen  all." 

46  Silence!  " 

44  Put  down  the  soft  pedals." 

44  Hold  y  our  tongue,  blockhead." 

44  Give  him  some  wine,  and  that  will  keep  him  quiet." 

44  Go  on,  Bixiou." 

The  artist  buttoned  up  his  black  coat,  put  on  his 
gloves  and  an  elderly  grimace,  intended  to  represent 
the  Revue  des  Deux-Mondes  ;  then  he  squinted  — 
but  the  noise  drowned  his  voice,  and  it  was  impossible 
to  catch  a  word  of  his  allocution.  If  he  did  not  repre- 
sent the  nineteenth  century,  he  at  least  fully  represented 
the  Revue,  for  he  himself  had  no  idea  what  he  meant. 


68 


The  Magic  Skin. 


The  dessert  was  served  as  if  by  magic.  In  the 
centre  of  the  table  stood  a  large  épergne  in  gilded 
bronze,  from  the  workshops  of  Thomire.  Tall  figures 
of  the  conventional  forms  of  ideal  beauty,  held  up  or 
supported  baskets  and  vases  of  strawberries,  pine- 
apples, white  and  purple  grapes,  fresh  dates,  rosy 
peaches,  oranges  from  Sétubal,  pomegranates,  fruits 
from  China,  in  short,  all  the  surprises  of  luxury,  the 
miraculous  productions  of  hothouses,  the  choicest  and 
most  appetizing  delicacies.  The  colors  of  this  gastro- 
nomic picture  were  heightened  by  the  shimmer  of  the 
porcelain  baskets  with  their  glittering  lines  of  gold, 
and  the  sparkle  of  the  cut  glass  vases.  Graceful  as 
the  light  fringes  of  ocean,  ferns  and  mosses  drooped 
over  landscapes  by  Poussin,  copied  on  the  Sevres. 
A  German  principality  was  worth  less  than  this  piece 
of  ostentation.  Silver,  mother-of-pearl,  gold,  and  pris- 
matic glass,  were  disposed  about  the  table  for  the  final 
course  ;  but  the  dulled  eyes  of  the  guests  and  the  wordy 
fever  of  their  intoxication  prevented  them  from  having 
more  than  a  vague  idea  of  the  fairy  scene,  which  was 
indeed  worthy  of  an  oriental  tale.  The  wines  of  the  des- 
sert added  their  own  fier}-  perfumes,  like  powerful  phil- 
ters or  magic  vapors  that  generated  a  sort  of  intellectual 
mirage,  chaining  the  feet  and  enervating  the  hands. 
The  beautiful  p}7ramid  was  pillaged,  voices  rose  high, 
the  tumult  swelled  ;  words  became  indistinct,  glass  was 
shivered  to  fragments,  and  bursts  of  horrid  laughter 
exploded  like  cartridges.  Cursy  seized  a  horn  and 
sounded  a  fanfare.  It  was  like  a  signal  from  the  devil. 
The  assemblage  became  delirious,  howled,  whistled, 
sang,  shouted,  roared,  and  snarled.    One  might  almost 


The  Magic  Skin. 


69 


have  smiled  to  see  these  men,  by  nature  gay,  now 
driven  by  their  enjoyments  into  a  tragic  mood  that 
was  worthy  of  the  pages  of  Crébillon.  Some  were  telling 
their  secrets  to  ears  that  did  not  listen.  Gloomy  faces 
wore  the  smile  of  a  ballet-girl,  when  she  finishes  a 
pirouette.  Claude  Vignon  was  dancing  like  a  bear 
to  a  fife.  Intimate  friends  were  fighting.  The  like- 
nesses to  animals  that  came  out  on  these  human  faces, 
phenomena  which  have  often  been  remarked  on  by 
physiologists,  appeared  vaguely  in  their  gestures  and 
in  the  movement  of  their  bodies.  They  were  an  open 
book,  if  only  some  Bichat,  cool,  sober,  and  fasting, 
had  been  there  to  read  it.  The  master  of  the  feast, 
feeling  that  he  was  drunk,  did  not  venture  to  rise,  but 
sat  still,  encouraging  the  follies  of  his  guests  by  a  fixed 
smile,  and  trying  all  the  while  to  maintain  an  air  of 
decency  and  good-fellowship.  His  broad  face,  now  red 
and  blue  and  almost  purple,  wTas  horrible  to  behold  ; 
it  associated  itself  with  the  movement  about  him  by 
a  motion  that  resembled  the  rolling  and  pitching  of  a 
ship  at  sea. 

"  Did  you  murder  them?"  Emile  suddenly  asked 
him. 

"The  death  penalty  is  to  be  abolished  in  honor  of 
the  Revolution  of  July,  so  they  say,"  replied  Taillefer, 
raising  his  eyebrows  with  a  look  that  was  both  shrewd 
and  stupid. 

u  But  don't  you  sometimes  see  them  in  your  dreams  ?  " 
added  Raphael. 

"  There  are  limits  to  that,"  said  the  murderer,  full  of 
gold. 

"  And  on  his  tomb,"  cried  Emile,  sardonically,  "  shall 


70 


The  Magic  Skin. 


these  words  be  engraved  by  the  undertaker,  i  Stran- 
ger, bestow  a  tear  upon  his  memory.'  Oh  !  "  he  con- 
tinued, "I'd  give  a  hundred  sous  to  a  mathematician 
who  would  demonstrate  by  an  algebraic  equation  the 
certainty  of  hell.,, 

He  flung  a  five-franc  piece  in  the  air  crying  out, 
"Heads  for  God  i  " 

"  Don't  look,"  cried  Eaphael,  seizing  the  coin,  u  who 
knows?  luck  is  so  queer." 

"Alas!"  said  Emile,  with  an  air  of  burlesque  sad- 
ness. "  I  don't  know  where  to  set  my  feet  between 
the  geometry  of  scepticism  and  the  Pope's  Pater 
noster.  Well,  no  matter,  let  us  drink.  '  Drink  '  is,  I 
believe,  the  oracle  of  the  Divine  Bottle,  and  serves  as 
the  conclusion  to  Pantagruel." 

"  We  owe  everything  to  the  Pater  noster  "  answered 
Eaphael,  —  "  our  arts,  our  public  monuments,  perhaps 
our  sciences  ;  and  above  all,  modern  government,  in 
which  society,  vast  and  teeming  as  it  is,  is  marvellously 
represented  by  five  hundred  intellects,  whose  forces  op- 
pose and  neutralize  each  other,  leaving  all  power  to 
Civilization,  the  colossal  queen  who  has  dethroned  the 
King,  that  ancient  and  terrible  figure,  that  species  of 
false  destiny  created  by  man  to  stand  between  himself 
and  God.  In  presence  of  so  many  and  vast  accom- 
plished things  atheism  is  like  a  skeleton  unable  to  beget. 
What  sa}7  you  ?  " 

"I  reflect  upon  the  seas  of  blood  shed  by  Catholi- 
cism," said  Emile,  coldly.  "It  has  drawn  from  our 
hearts  and  our  veins  a  second  deluge.  But  what 
matters  it?  Every  thinking  man  must  march  under 
Christ's  banner.   He  alone  has  consecrated  the  triumph 


The  Magic  Skin.  71 

of  mind  over  matter  ;  he  alone  has  revealed  to  our  souls 
the  intermediate  world  which  separates  us  from  God." 

"  You  believe  that?  "  answered  Raphael,  with  the  in- 
definable smile  of  intoxication.  ;- Well,  not  to  commit 
ourselves,  let  us  drink  the  famous  toast  :  Diis  ignotis  ! " 

And  they  emptied  their  goblets  of  science,  of  car- 
bonic acid  gas,  of  perfume,  poetry,  and  scepticism. 

"  If  the  gentlemen  will  pass  into  the  salon,"  said  the 
maître  d'hôtel,  "  coffee  will  be  served." 

By  this  time  nearly  all  the  guests  were  wallowing  in 
the  delights  of  that  limbo  where  the  lamps  of  the  mind 
go  out,  where  the  body,  delivered  of  its  tyrant,  aban- 
dons itself  to  the  delirious  jo\Ts  of  liberty.  Some,  wTho 
had  reached  the  maximum  of  drunkenness,  were  gloomy, 
and  strove  laboriously  to  seize  some  thought  that 
might  prove  to  them  their  own  existence  ;  others,  sunk 
in  the  atrophy  of  an  overloaded  digestion,  refused  to 
stir.  The  chorus  of  a  song  was  echoing  like  the  twang 
of  some  mechanism  forced  to  play  out  its  soulless  num- 
bers. Silence  and  tumult  were  odclly  coupled.  Never- 
theless, when  the  sonorous  voice  of  the  maître  d'hôtel, 
in  default  of  that  of  his  master,  was  heard  announcing 
fresh  delights,  the  guests  rose  and  advanced  half-drag- 
ging, half-supporting  each  other,  until  they  stopped  for 
an  instant,  charmed  and  motionless,  at  the  door  of  the 
salon. 

The  enjoyments  of  the  banquet  paled  before  the  en- 
ticing spectacle  now  presented  to  the  most  susceptible 
of  their  senses.  Round  a  table  covered  with  a  silver 
gilt  service,  and  beneath  the  sparkling  light  of  many 
candles  clustering  above  them,  stood  a  number  of 


72 


The  Magic  Skin. 


women,  whose  sudden  appearance  made  the  eyes  of 
the  bewildered  guests  shine  like  diamonds.  Rich  were 
their  dresses  and  their  jewels,  but  richer  still  their 
dazzling  beauty,  before  which  all  other  splendors  of 
the  palace  paled.  The  passionate  eyes  of  these  girls, 
bewitching  as  fairies,  were  more  vivid  than  the  floods 
of  light  which  brought  out  the  shimmer  of  satin  stuffs, 
the  whiteness  of  marbles,  and  the  delicate  outline  of 
bronze  figures.  The  senses  of  the  guests  glowed  as 
they  caught  sight  of  the  contrasts  in  their  attitudes  and 
in  the  decoration  of  their  heads,  all  diverse  in  attrac- 
tion and  in  character.  They  were  like  a  hedge  of 
flowers,  strewn  with  rubies,  sapphires,  and  coral  ;  bands 
of  black  were  round  the  snow}'  throats,  light  scarfs 
floated  from  them  like  the  beams  of  a  beacon,  turbans 
were  proudly  worn,  and  tunics,  modestly  provocative  — 
in  short,  the  seraglio  offered  seductions  to  all  eyes,  and 
pleasures  for  all  caprices.  Here,  a  danseuse,  charm- 
ingly posed,  seemed  as  though  unveiled  beneath  the 
undulating  folds  of  a  cashmere.  There,  a  diaphanous 
gauze,  or  an  iridescent  silk  hid,  or  revealed,  mysterious 
perfections.  Slender  little  feet  spoke  of  love,  fresh  and 
rosy  lips  were  silent.  Delicate  and  decent  young  girls, 
false  virgins,  whose  pretty  hair  gave  forth  a  savor  of 
religious  innocence,  seemed  to  the  eye  like  apparitions 
which  a  breath  might  dispel.  Aristocratic  beauties, 
with  haughty  eyes,  indolent  and  slender  and  graceful, 
bent  their  heads  as  though  they  still  had  regal  favors  to 
dispense.  An  Englishwoman  with  a  chaste  fair  face,  de- 
scending, as  it  were,  from  the  clouds  of  Ossian,  was  like 
an  angel  of  melancholy,  or  an  image  of  remorse  fleeing 
from  a  crime.     The  Parisian  woman,  whose  whole 


The  Magic  Skin. 


73 


beauty  lies  in  a  grace  indescribable,  vain  of  her  dress 
and  her  wit,  armed  with  her  all-powerful  weakness, 
supple  and  hard,  siren  without  heart  and  without  pas- 
sion, yet  knowing  how  by  mere  skill  to  create  the 
treasures  of  passion,  and  to  simulate  the  tones  of 
the  heart,  was  not  wanting  in  this  dangerous  bevy  ;  nor 
yet  the  Italian,  tranquil  apparently  and  conscientious 
in  her  delights  ;  nor  the  superb  Norman  woman  of  mag- 
nificent shape  ;  nor  the  black-haired  Southern  beauty, 
with  her  large  and  well-formed  eye.  An  observer  might 
have  thought  them  the  beauties  of  Versailles  called  to- 
gether by  Lebel,  who,  having  spent  the  clay  in  preparing 
their  charms,  were  now  like  a  troop  of  Circassian  slaves 
aroused  at  the  voice  of  a  merchant  to  display  them. 
They  appeared  confused  and  bashful  ;  and  clustered 
around  the  table  like  bees  murmuring  about  a  hive. 
This  timid  embarrassment,  which  seemed  like  reproach 
and  coquetry  combined,  was  either  a  calculated  form  of 
seduction,  or  an  involuntary  shame-facedness.  Perhaps 
a  feeling  which  womanhood  can  never  completely  cast 
off  bade  them  snatch  the  mantle  of  virtue  to  give  greater 
charm  and  piquancy  to  vice. 

For  an  instant  the  intentions  of  old  Taillefer  seemed 
to  miss  their  mark.  These  reckless  men  were,  for  a 
moment,  subjugated  by  the  majestic  dignity  that  invests 
a  woman.  A  murmur  of  admiration  like  soft  music 
was  heard.  Love  had  not  gone  hand  in  hand  with 
drunkenness.  In  place  of  stormy  passions,  the  guests, 
overcome  by  momentary  weakness,  abandoned  them- 
selves to  rapturous  ecstasy.  Touched  in  their  sense 
of  poetry,  which  is  forever  dominant,  artists  studied  the 
delicate  tones  of  these  chosen  beauties.    A  philosopher, 


74 


The  Magic  Shin. 


roused  by  a  thought  due,  perhaps,  to  the  carbonic  acid 
disengaged  from  the  fumes  of  champagne,  shuddered  as 
he  thought  of  the  miseries  that  had  brought  those 
women  there,  —  women  once  worthy  of  the  purest 
homage.  Each  of  them,  no  doubt,  had  some  awful 
drama  to  relate.  Nearly  all  carried  about  with  them 
the  tortures  of  hell,  dragging  after  them  the  memory 
of  faithless  men,  of  promises  betrayed,  of  joys  all  too 
bitterly  paid  for  by  distress. 

The  guests  approached  these  women  politely,  and 
various  conversations,  according  to  the  characters  of 
each,  began  ;  groups  were  formed  ;  the  scene  was 
like  that  of  a  salon  in  good  society  where  the  matrons 
and  the  young  girls  offer  coffee  and  liqueurs  to  gour- 
mands troubled  by  a  recalcitrant  digestion.  But  pres- 
ently bursts  of  laughter  broke  forth,  the  noise  increased, 
voices  were  raised.  Revelry,  quelled  for  a  moment,  now 
lifted  its  head  and  threatened  to  arise.  These  alterna- 
tions of  silence  and  noise  bore  a  vague  resemblance  to 
a  symphony  of  Beethoven. 

The  two  friends,  seated  on  a  luxurious  sofa,  were 
presently  approached  by  a  tall,  well-proportioned  girl 
of  superb  bearing,  whose  regular  but  keen  and  impet- 
uous features  compelled  attention  by  their  vigorous 
contrasts.  Her  black  hair,  curling  luxuriantly,  seemed 
to  have  undergone  already  the  combats  of  love,  and  fell 
in  loose  locks  upon  her  shoulders,  whose  perspectives 
were  attractive  to  the  eye.  The  skin,  of  an  ivory 
whiteness,  brought  out  the  warm  tones  of  her  vivid 
coloring.  Her  eyes,  fringed  with  long  lashes,  flashed 
flames  and  sparks  of  love.  The  red,  moist  mouth,  half- 
open,  invited  kisses.    The  giiTs  ligure  was  powerfully 


The  Magic  Skin. 


75 


built,  but  amorously  elastic  ;  her  bosom  and  arms 
were  developed  like  the  noble  figures  of  the  Caracci  ; 
nevertheless  she  was  active  and  supple  with  the  vigorous 
agility  of  a  panther.  Though  laughter  and  frolic  wan- 
tonness must  have  been  familiar  to  her,  there  was  some- 
thing alarming  in  her  eyes  and  smile.  Like  a  prophetess 
controlled  by  a  demon,  she  astonished  rather  than 
pleased  those  whom  she  addressed.  All  expressions 
rushed  in  turn  and  like  lightning  across  her  mobile  face. 
Perhaps  she  might  have  fascinated  a  sated  mind,  but 
young  men  would  have  feared  her.  She  was  like  a 
colossal  statue  fallen  from  the  pediment  of  a  Greek 
temple,  sublime  at  a  distance,  but  coarse  on  nearer 
view.  And  yet  that  dangerous  beauty  was  fit  to  rouse 
the  impotent,  that  voice  could  charm  the  deaf,  those 
looks  reanimate  a  skeleton.  Emile  compared  her 
vaguely  to  a  tragedy  of  Shakspeare,  a  wonderful 
arabesque,  where  joy  shrieks,  where  love  has  I  know 
not  what  of  savagery,  where  the  magic  of  grace  and 
the  fires  of  happiness  succeed  the  wild  tumults  of  anger  ; 
a  monster  who  can  bite  and  fondle,  laugh  like  a  demon, 
weep  as  the  angels,  improvise  in  a  single  embrace  all 
the  seductions  of  womanhood,  except  the  sighs  of  sad- 
ness and  the  pure  transporting  modesty  of  a  virgin,  — 
and  then,  in  another  instant,  roar,  and  tear  her  bosom, 
and  destroy  her  passion  and  her  lover  and  herself  like 
an  insurrectionary  mob. 

She  wore  a  robe  of  crimson  velvet,  and  advanced 
to  the  two  friends,  treading  heedlessly  underfoot  the 
scattered  flowers  already  fallen  from  the  heads  of  her 
companions,  and  holding  out  with  disdainful  hands  a 
silver  tray.    Proud  of  her  beauty,  proud  perhaps  of  her 


I 


76  The  Magic  Skin. 

vices,  she  exhibited  a  white  arm  brilliantly  relieved 
against  the  velvet.  She  stood  there  like  the  queen  of 
pleasure,  like  an  image  of  human  joy,  the  joy  that  dissi- 
pates the  hoarded  treasures  of  generations,  that  laughs 
in  presence  of  the  dead,  that  mocks  at  age,  dissolves 
pearls,  casts  away  thrones,  transforms  young  men  to  old 
ones,  and  makes  old  men  young, —that  joy  permitted 
only  to  giants  among  men  when  wearied  of  power,  tried 
in  thought,  or  to  whom  war  has  become  an  amusement. 

"  What  is  your  name?"  Raphael  asked  her. 

"  Aquilina." 

"Ha,  ha!  do  you  come  from  'Venice  Preserved  '?  " 
cried  Emile. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "The  popes  take  new 
names  when  they  mount  above  the  heads  of  men  ;  and 
so  I  took  another  when  I  rose  above  the  heads  of 
women." 

"  And  have  you,  like  your  patron  lady,  a  noble  and 
terrible  conspirator  who  loves  you  enough  to  die  for 
you?"  said  Emile  quickly,  roused  by  the  poetic  sug- 
gestion. 

"  I  had,"  she  answered,  "  but  the  guillotine  was  my 
rival.  That  is  why  I  always  wear  some  scarlet  frippery 
—  lest  my  joy  should  go  too  far." 

"Oh  !  if  you  let  her  tell  you  the  history  of  the  four 
young  men  of  La  Rochelle,  there  will  be  no  end  to  it. 
Hold  your  tongue,  Aquilina  !  Does  n't  every  woman 
mourn  a  lover?  —  though  they  don't  all,  like  you,  have 
the  satisfaction  of  losing  them  on  a  scaffold.  For  my 
part,  I 'd  rather  think  of  mine  sleeping  in  a  pit  at 
Clamart  than  in  my  rival's  arms." 

These  words  were  said  in  a  soft,  melodious  voice  by 


The  Magic  Skin. 


77 


the  prettiest,  daintiest,  most  innocent  little  creature 
that  ever  issued  from  an  enchanted  egg  at  the  touch  of 
a  fairy's  wand.  She  had  approached  them  noiselessly, 
and  they  now  saw  her  fragile  form  and  delicate  face, 
with  its  ravishing  blue  eyes  full  of  modesty,  and  the 
fresh,  pure  brow.  A  naiad  escaped  from  her  mountain 
stream  were  not  more  timid,  more  fair,  more  simple  than 
this  young  girl,  who  seemed  to  be  about  sixteen  years 
old,  ignorant  of  love,  ignorant  of  evil,  unknowing  of 
the  storms  of  life,  and  as  if  petitioning  angels  to  recall 
her  to  the  skies  before  her  time.  In  Paris  alone  do 
we  meet  with  such  creatures,  whose  candid  faces  mask 
beneath  a  brow  as  pure  and  tender  as  the  petal  of  a 
daisy  the  deepest  depravity  and  the  subtlest  vice. 
Emile  and  Eaphael  accepted  the  coffee  which  she 
poured  into  the  cups  that  Aquilina  held,  and  then  be- 
gan to  question  her.  Little  by  little  she  transfigured 
to  the  eyes  of  the  two  poets,  as  by  a  baleful  allegory,  an 
aspect  of  human  life,  —  holding  up,  in  contrast  to  the 
fierce  and  passionate  expression  of  her  imposing  com- 
panion, a  picture  of  cold  corruption,  voluptuously  cruel, 
thoughtless  enough  to  commit  a  crime,  strong  enough 
.  to  laugh  at  it  ;  a  species  of  devil  without  a  heart,  who 
punishes  tender  and  affluent  souls  for  experiencing  the 
feelings  of  which  she  is  deprived  ;  never  without  some 
cant  of  love  to  sell,  a  tear  for  the  coffin  of  a  victim,  and 
a  laugh  at  night  over  a  bequest.  Poets  would  have 
admired  Aquilina  ;  but  the  whole  world  would  have  fled 
Euphrasia.  The  one  was  the  soul  of  vice  ;  the  other  was 
vice  without  a  soul. 

u  I  should  like  to  know,"  Emile  said  to  the  pretty 
creature,  "  if  you  ever  think  of  the  future?  " 


78 


The  Magic  Skin. 


u  The  future  ?  "  she  answered,  laughing.  "  What  do 
you  call  the  future  ?  Why  should  I  think  about  a  thing 
that  doesn't  yet  exist?  I  never  look  either  forward  or 
back.  Don't  you  think  that  one  day  at  a  time  is  enough 
for  anybody?  Besides,  we  all  know  what  the  future  is  ; 
it  is  the  hospital." 

"  How  can  you  look  forward  to  the  hospital  and  not 
try  to  avoid  it  ?  "  cried  Eaphael. 

"What  is  there  so  dreadful  in  the  hospital?"  asked 
the  terrible  Aquilina.  "If  we  are  neither  wives  nor 
mothers,  if  old  age  puts  black  stockings  on  our  legs 
and  wrinkles  in  our  faces,  and  blasts  all  that  is  left 
of  a  woman  within  us,  and  kills  our  welcome  in  the  eyes 
of  our  friends,  where  else  can  we  go?  You  see  nothing 
in  us  then  but  original  sin  on  two  legs,  cold,  withered, 
stiff,  and  rattling  like  the  leaves  in  autumn.  Our  pretti- 
est furbelows  become  mere  rags,  the  ambergris  that 
perfumes  our  boudoirs  gets  the  odor  of  the  grave,  and 
smells  like  a  dead  body  ;  and  then,  if  there  's  a  heart  in 
this  bit  of  mud  you  insult  it  ;  you  will  not  even  let  it 
keep  a  memory.  Whether  wre  are  then  in  a  great  man- 
sion taking  care  of  dogs,  or  in  a  hospital  sorting  bandages, 
is  n't  life  for  us  exactly  the  same  thing?  Suppose  we  tie 
up  our  white  hairs  in  checked  handkerchiefs,  or  hide  them 
under  laces  ;  sweep  the  streets  with  a  broom  or  the  steps 
of  the  Tuileries  with  our  satin  petticoats  ;  sit  at  ease  by 
a  gilded  fireplace,  or  keep  warm  over  the  cinders  in  an 
earthen  pot  ;  see  the  pla}^  at  the  opera  or  on  the  place  de 
Grève,  what  difference  is  there  for  us?" 

"  Aquilina  mia,  you  never  said  greater  truth  than 
that  in  the  midst  of  all  your  troubles,"  returned  Eu- 
phrasia.   "  Yes,  cashmeres,  and  perfumes,  and  gold, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


79 


and  silk,  and  luxury,  and  all  that  shines  and  gives 
pleasure  is  only  fit  for  youth.  Time  alone  can  get  the 
better  of  follies,  but  happiness  meantime  absolves  them. 
You  laugh  at  what  I  say,"  she  cried,  with  a  venomous 
look  at  the  two  young  men  ;  "  but  am  I  not  right?  I 'd 
rather  die  of  pleasure  than  disease.  I  have  n't  a  mania 
for  perpetuity,  nor  much  respect  for  the  human  species, 
seeing  what  God  has  let  it  come  to.  Give  me  millions 
and  I  '11  spend  them  ;  I  will  not  keep  a  penny  for  next 
year.  Live  to  please  and  reign,  —  that  is  the  teaching  of 
every  pulse  in  my  body.  Society  bears  me  out  ;  is  n't 
it  all  the  time  furnishing  means  for  me  to  dissipate? 
Why  else  does  the  good  God  give  me  everj^  morning 
the  money  for  what  I  dispense  at  night  ?  Why  else  do 
you  build  us  hospitals?  We  are  certainly  not  placed 
between  good  and  evil  to  choose  what  hurts  and  bores 
us  ;  and  therefore  should  n't  I  be  a  great  fool  not  to 
enjoy  myself?  " 

"  How  about  others?  "  said  Emile. 

44  Others?  oh,  let  them  manage  for  themselves.  I 'd 
rather  laugh  at  their  sufferings  than  cry  for  my  own. 
I  defy  a  man  to  cause  me  an  instant's  pain." 

46  What  must  you  have  suffered  before  }rou  came  to 
such  thoughts  !  "  said  Raphael. 

44 1  have  been  deserted  for  money  ;  yes,  I,"  she  said, 
taking  an  attitude  that  showed  off  all  her  seductions. 
44  And  yet  I  had  passed  nights  as  well  as  days  in  work- 
ing to  feed  my  lover.  I  will  no  longer  be  the  dupe 
of  smiles,  nor  of  any  promise  ;  I  mean  to  make  my  life 
one  long  festivity." 

44  But,"  cried  Raphael,  4  4  happiness  can  come  only 
through  the  soul." 


80 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"Well,"  said  Aquilina,  "  is  n't  it  happiness  to  be 
admired  and  flattered  ;  to  triumph  over  all  other  women, 
even  the  virtuous  ones,  and  crush  them  with  our  beauty 
and  our  luxury?  We  have  more  of  life  in  one  da}'  than 
those  good  women  in  ten  years,  and  that 's  the  whole 
of  it." 

4  6  What  is  there  so  odious  as  a  woman  without  virtue  ? " 
Emile  said  to  Raphael. 

Euphrasia  flung  them  a  viperous  look,  and  answered 
with  inimitable  irony 9  "Virtue!  we  leave  that  to  the 
frights  and  the  hunchbacks  ;  what  would  they  be  with- 
out it,  poor  things  !  " 

"  Come,  be  silent!"  said  Emile;  "  don't  talk  of 
things  you  know  nothing  of." 

"  Don't  I  know  anything  !  "  replied  Euphrasia.  "  To 
give  one's  self  all  one's  life  to  a  hated  being  ;  to  bring  up 
children  who  desert  you,  and  to  say  1  Thank  you  '  when 
they  stab  you  in  the  breast,  —  those  are  the  virtues  you 
command  a  woman  to  have  !  And  then,  to  compensate 
her  for  her  self-denials,  you  try  to  seduce  her  and  heap 
sufferings  on  her  ;  if  she  resists,  you  compromise  her. 
A  fine  life  that  !  better  be  free  and  love  those  who 
please  us,  and  die  young." 

"  But  are  you  not  afraid  of  the  penalty?" 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "Instead  of  mixing  my  pleas- 
ures with  griefs,  I  prefer  to  cut  my  life  into  two  parts, 
—  a  joyous  youth,  and  I  know  not  what  uncertain  old 
age,  during  which  I  shall  suffer  at  my  ease." 

"  She  has  never  loved,"  said  Aquilina,  in  a  deep 
voice.  "  She  has  never  tramped  a  hundred  miles  with 
passionate  delight  to  win  a  glance  and  a  rejection  ;  she 
never  bound  her  life  to  a  lock  of  hair,  nor  tried  to  stab 


The  Magic  Skin. 


81 


a  hedge  of  men  to  save  her  sovereign,  her  lord,  her 
God.    Love,  for  her,  was  a  jaunty  colonel  !  " 

"Ha,  ha!  La  Rochelle,"  laughed  Euphrasia,  "love 
is  like  the  wind;  we  know  not  whence  it  comes,  nor 
whither  it  goeth.  If  you  had  ever  been  loved  by  a  stupid 
beast,  you  would  have  a  horror  of  men  of  wisdom." 

"  The  Code  forbids  that,"  retorted  Aquilina,  ironically. 

"I  thought  you  had  more  compassion  for  soldiers," 
cried  Euphrasia,  laughing. 

"Ah,  well!  are  not  they  happy  to  be  able  to  lay 
aside  their  intellects  ?  "  said  Raphael. 

u  Happy  !  "  said  Aquilina,  with  a  smile  of  pity  and 
of  terror,  as  she  cast  an  awful  look  at  the  two  friends,  — 
"  Happy  !  Ah,  who  knows  what  it  is  to  be  condemned 
to  pleasure  with  death  in  one's  heart." 

Whosoever  had  looked  with  an  observing  eye  upon 
the  scene  in  this  salon  would  have  seen  Milton's  Pan- 
demonium anticipated.  The  blue  flames  of  the  circu- 
lating punch  gave  an  infernal  color  to  the  faces  of  those 
who  were  still  able  to  drink.  Frantic  dances,  prompted 
by  brutal  vigor,  went  on  ;  excited  laughter  and  shouts 
exploded  like  fireworks.  Strewn,  as  it  were,  with  dead 
and  dying,  the  salon  was  like  a  battlefield.  The  at- 
mosphere was  hot  with  wine,  with  pleasures,  and  with 
speech.  Intoxication,  passion,  delirium,  forgetfulness 
of  the  world,  were  in  all  hearts,  in  all  faces,  written  on 
the  floors,  sounding  in  the  riot,  and  flung  like  a  veil 
across  every  face  in  seething  vapors.  A  shining  dust, 
like  the  luminous  track  of  a  ray  of  sunshine,  shimmered 
in  the  room,  across  which  glanced  eccentric  forms  and 
grotesque  struggles  ;  here  and  there  groups  of  con- 
fused figures  mingled  and  were  confounded  with  the 

6 


82 


The  Magic  Skin. 


marble  masterpieces  of  sculpture  which  decorated  the 
apartment. 

Although  the  two  friends  still  preserved  a  doubtful 
intelligence  in  their  ideas  and  in  their  conduct,  —  a  last 
quiver,  as  it  were,  of  their  own  lives,  —  it  was  now  im- 
possible for  them  to  distinguish  what  was  real  from 
what  was  visionary  in  the  fantastic  scene  ;  nor  what  was 
possible  and  actual  in  the  supernatural  pictures  which 
passed  like  a  panorama  before  their  wearied  eyes..  The 
atmosphere,  sultry  with  visions  and  with  the  ardent 
sweetness  which  moves  upon  the  surface  of  our  dreams  ; 
above  all,  the  inward  impulse  to  an  activity  that  was 
loaded  with  chains,  — in  short,  the  phenomena  of  sleep 
attacked  them  so  powerfully  that  the  scenes  of  this 
orgy  seemed  to  them  at  last  like  the  pantomime  of  a 
nightmare,  where  movement  is  noiseless  and  sound  is 
lost  to  the  ear. 

At  this  crisis  the  confidential  servant  of  the  giver  of 
the  feast  succeeded,  not  without  difficulty,  in  attracting 
his  master's  attention  and  drawing  him  into  the  ante- 
chamber to  whisper  in  his  ear:  "  Monsieur,  the  people 
in  the  neighboring  houses  are  at  their  windows,  and 
complain  of  the  uproar." 

"  If  the}7  are  afraid  of  noise,  can't  they  spread  straw 
before  their  doors  ?  "  replied  Taillefer. 

Eaphael  suddenly  burst  into  a  roar  of  such  tempes- 
tuous, incontinent  laughter  that  Emile  asked  him  the 
meaning  of  his  brutal  delight. 

"  You  can  hardly  understand  me,"  he  replied.  "  In 
the  first  place  I  must  confess  that  you  stopped  me  on 
the  quai  Voltaire  at  the  moment  when  I  was  about  to 
drown  myself.    No  doubt  you  will  want  to  know  the 


The  Magic  Shin. 


motives  for  my  suicide.  But  if  I  say  that  by  an  almost 
magic  chance  the  poetic  ruins  of  material  worlds  had 
just  passed  before  my  eyes,  like  a  symbolic  demonstra- 
tion of  human  wisdom,  and  that  now,  at  this  moment, 
all  the  intellectual  truths  that  we  ransacked  at  table  are 
brought  to  a  point  in  these  two  women, — the  living 
representatives  of  the  follies  of  life,  —  and  that  our  deep 
indifference  to  men  and  things  has  served  as  a  means 
of  transition  between  the  highly  wrought  pictures  of 
two  systems  of  existence,  diametrically  opposed  to  each 
other,  will  you  be  a  particle  the  wiser?  If  you  were 
not  drunk  you  might  perhaps  see  in  all  that  a  treatise 
on  philosophy." 

"  If  your  two  feet  were  not  resting  on  that  delightful 
Aquilina,  whose  heavy  breathing  has  a  certain  analogy 
to  the  mutterings  of  an  approaching  storm, "  replied 
Emile,  who  was  himself  twining  his  fingers  in  Euphra- 
sia's  hair,  without  really  noticing  his  innocent  occupa- 
tion, u  you  would  blush  at  your  drunken  chatter.  Your 
two  systems  can  be  uttered  in  a  single  sentence,  and 
reduced  to  a  single  thought.  A  simple  and  mechanical 
life  leads  to  senseless  wisdom  by  stifling  our  minds  in 
toil;  whereas  a  life  passed  in  the  vague  immense  of 
abstractions,  or  in  the  depths  profound  of  the  moral 
world  leads  to  the  follies  of  wisdom.  In  a  word,  kill 
emotions  if  you  want  to  live  to  old  age,  or  die  young 
accepting  the  martyrdom  of  our  passions,  —  that 's  our 
doom.  And,  I  ask  you,  is  such  a  doom  out  of  keeping 
with  the  temperaments  bestowed  upon  us  by  the  rough 
jester  to  whom  we  owe  the  pattern  of  mankind?" 

"  Fool  !  "  cried  Raphael,  interrupting  him.  u  Go  on 
abridging  yourself  at  that  rate,  and  you  '11  write  vol- 


84 


The  Magic  Skin. 


nmes.  If  I  pretended  to  formulate  those  two  ideas,  I 
should  tell  you  that  man  corrupts  himself  by  the  exer- 
cise of  his  reason,  and  purifies  himself  by  ignorance. 
That 's  the  indictment  of  all  societies.  But  whether  we 
live  with  the  wise  or  die  with  the  fools,  the  result  is, 
sooner  or  later,  the  same.  Moreover,  the  grand  ab- 
stracter of  quintessences  has  alread}^  expressed  those 
two  systems  by  two  words  :  Carymary,  Carymara." 

"  You  make  me  doubt  the  power  of  God,  for  you  are 
more  stupid  than  he  is  powerful,"  replied  Emile.  "  Our 
beloved  Rabelais  has  summed  up  that  philosophy  in 
fewer  syllables  than  Carymary,  Carymara;  in  the  Per- 
haps from  which  Montaigne  took  his  How  do  I  know  ? 
Besides,  these  modern  words  of  moral  science  are  noth- 
ing more  than  the  exclamation  of  Pyrrho,  the  father  of 
scepticism,  halting  between  good  and  evil  like  the  ass 
of  Buridan  between  two  measures  of  oats.  But  do  let 
us  drop  these  everlasting  discussions  which  can  only 
end  nowada}rs  in  a  yes  or  a  no.  What  sensation  did 
you  want  to  experience  by  throwing  yourself  into  the 
Seine  ?  Were  you  jealous  of  that  hydraulic  machine  on 
the  pont  Notre-Dame  ?  " 

u  Ah  !  if  you  only  knew  my  life." 

"  Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  cried  Emile,  "I  did  not 
think  you  so  commonplace  ;  that  remark  is  used  up. 
Don't  you  know  that  everybody  suffers  more  than  an}T- 
body  else  ?  " 

"Ah!  —  "  cried  Raphael. 

"  You  are  absolutely  burlesque  with  your  'ah!' 
Come,  tell  me  what  disease  of  soul  or  body  obliges 
you  to  drive  home  ever}'  morning,  by  some  contraction 
of  your  muscles,  the  horses  which  ought  b}^  rights  to 


The  Magic  Skin. 


85 


quarter  you  the  night  before  like  those  of  Damiens? 
Have  you  eaten  your  dog  raw,  without  salt,  in  your 
garret?  Have  your  children  cried  to  you,  4  Give  us 
bread  '  ?  Have  you  sold  your  mistress's  hair  for  a  last 
napoleon  at  the  gambling-table?  Have  you  paid  away 
a  sham  note  on  a  false  uncle  and  know  it  won't  pass  ? 
Come,  I  am  ready  to  listen.  If  you  intended  to  fling 
yourself  into  the  river  for  a  woman,  or  a  protested  note, 
or  because  you  were  tired  of  life,  I  repudiate  you. 
Confess  yourself,  and  don't  lie  ;  I  won't  ask  for  strict 
historical  facts.  Above  all,  be  as  brief  as  your  drunken- 
ness will  allow  ;  remember,  I 'm  as  exacting  as  a  novel- 
reader  and  as  near  asleep  as  a  woman  at  vespers." 

44  Poor  fool!"  said  Raphael.  44  Since  when  are 
sufferings  not  measured  to  our  sensibility  ?  When  we 
reach  a  degree  of  science  that  will  enable  us  to  make  a 
natural  history  of  hearts,  —  to  name  them,  and  classify 
them  in  species,  sub-species,  families,  Crustacea,  fossils, 
saurians,  animalculoe,  and  heaven  knows  what,  —  then, 
my  dear  friend,  it  will  be  found  that  some  are  as  ten- 
der and  delicate  as  a  flower  broken  by  a  touch  of  which 
the  mineral  heart  is  utterly  unconscious." 

44  Oh  !  for  heaven's  sake,  spare  me  the  preface," 
cried  Emile,  with  a  look  that  was  half-merry,  half-piti- 
ful, as  he  took  his  friend's  hand. 


86  The  Magic  Skin. 


PART  II. 
THE  WOMAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART. 

After  remaining  silent  for  a  moment  Raphael  said, 
with  a  half-careless  gesture  :  — 

"  I  don't  really  know  whether  the  fumes  of  punch  and 
wine  have,  or  have  not,  something  to  do  with  a  species 
of  lucidity  of  mind  which  enables  me  at  this  moment  to 
grasp  the  whole  of  my  life  as  though  it  were  a  picture, 
where  figures,  colors,  lights,  shadows,  and  half- tints  are 
faithfully  rendered.  This  poetic  play  of  my  imagina- 
tion would  not  surprise  me  if  it  were  not  accompanied 
by  a  feeling  of  contempt  for  my  sufferings  and  for  my 
former  joys.  Seen  from  a  distance,  my  life  seems  as 
though  shrunken  by  some  moral  phenomenon.  This 
long,  slow  agony  which  has  lasted  ten  years,  can  to- 
night be  reproduced  by  a  few  sentences,  in  which 
suffering  is  no  more  than  a  thought,  and  pleasure  a 
philosophical  reflection.  I  now  pass  judgment  ;  I  feel 
nothing." 

"  You  are  as  wearisome  as  an  amendment  in  process 
of  elucidation,"  cried  Emile. 

"Possibly,"  replied  Raphael,  without  resentment. 
"And,  therefore,  to  relieve  your  ears  I  spare  }rou  the 
first  seventeen  years  of  my  life.  Till  then  I  lived,  like 
you  and  a  thousand  others,  the  school  and  college  life 


The  Magic  Skin. 


87 


whose  fancied  troubles  and  real  joys  are  the  delights 
of  memory  ;  a  life  whose  Friday  vegetables  our  pam- 
pered stomachs  desire  —  so  long  as  they  cannot  get 
them  —  that  happy  life  whose  toil  may  now  seem  con- 
temptible, but  which,  nevertheless,  trained  us  to 
labor—" 

"  Get  to  the  story,"  said  Emile,  in  a  tone  half-comic, 
half-plaintive. 

"  When  I  left  college,"  resumed  Raphael,  u  my  father 
subjected  me  to  severe  discipline  ;  he  made  me  sleep  in 
a  room  adjoining  his  study  ;  I  went  to  bed  at  nine,  and 
got  up  at  five.  He  meant  me  to  study  law  conscien- 
tiously ;  and  I  did  so,  both  at  the  law-school  and  in  a 
lawyer's  office.  But  the  rules  of  time  and  distance 
were  so  rigidly  applied  to  my  walks  and  my  studies, 
and  at  dinner  my  father  inquired  so  closely  into  them  —  " 

"  What's  all  that  to  me?"  said  Emile. 

u  The  devil  take  you  !  "  replied  Raphael.  "  How  am 
I  to  make  you  understand  my  feelings  unless  I  tell  you 
the  facts  that  imperceptibly  influenced  my  soul,  en- 
slaved it  to  fear,  and  kept  me  a  long  time  in  the  primi- 
tive simplicity  of  youth  ?  Until  I  was  twenty-one  years 
old  I  succumbed  to  a  despotism  as  cold  as  any  monastic 
rule.  To  show  you  the  dreariness  of  niy  life,  I  need 
only  picture  my  father.  He  was  a  tall,  slender  man, 
with  a  hatchet  face  and  a  pale  complexion  ;  concise  in 
speech,  as  fond  of  teasing  as  an  old  maid,  and  pre- 
cise as  an  accountant.  His  paternity  overshadowed, 
like  a  leaden  dome,  all  my  lively  and  joyous  thoughts. 
If  I  tried  to  show  him  a  soft  and  tender  feeling  he 
treated  me  like  a  child  who  had  said  a  silly  thing.  I 
dreaded  him  far  more  than  you  and  I  ever  feared  a 


88 


The  Magic  Skin. 


school-master;  and  to  him  I  was  never  more  than 
eight  }^ears  old.  I  think  I  see  him  now.  In  his 
maroon-colored  overcoat,  standing  as  straight  as  a 
paschal  taper,  he  looked  like  a  smoked  herring  wrapped 
in  the  reddish  cover  of  an  old  pamphlet.  And  yet  I 
loved  him,  for  in  the  main  he  was  just.  Perhaps  we 
never  really  hate  severity  if  it  accompanies  a  noble 
character  and  pure  conduct,  and  is  occasionally  inter- 
mingled with  kindness.  If  my  father  never  left  me 
alone,  if,  up  to  the  age  of  twenty,  he  never  allowed  me 
to  spend  as  I  pleased  ten  francs,  ten  rascally,  vaga- 
bond francs,  —  a  treasure  whose  possession,  vainly 
coveted,  made  me  dream  of  ineffable  delights,  —  at  least 
he  endeavored  to  procure  me  a  few  amusements.  After 
promising  me  a  pleasure  for  several  months,  he  took  me 
to  the  Bouffons,  to  a  concert,  and  a  ball,  where  I  hoped 
to  meet  with  a  mistress.  A  mistress  !  to  me  she  was 
independence.  Shamefaced  and  timid,  and  ignorant  of 
the  jargon  of  society,  where  I  knew  no  one,  I  came 
home  with  a  heart  still  fresh,  but  swollen  with  desires. 
Then,  on  the  morrow,  bridled  like  a  troop-horse  by  my 
father,  I  went  back  to  my  office  and  the  law-school 
and  the  Palais.  To  try  to  escape  the  regular  routine 
he  had  laid  out  for  me  would  have  been  to  excite  his 
anger  ;  he  always  threatened  to  ship  me  to  the  Antilles 
as  a  cabin-boy  if  I  did  wrong.  I  used  to  tremble  hor- 
ribly when  occasionally  I  ventured  off  for  an  hour  or 
two  in  quest  of  some  amusement.  Realize,  if  you  can, 
a  vagrant  imagination,  a  tender  heart,  a  poetic  soul, 
ceaselessly  in  presence  of  the  stoniest,  coldest,  most 
melancholy  nature  in  the  world  ;  in  short,  marry  a 
young  girl  to  a  skeleton,  and  you  will  have  some  idea 


The  Magic  Skin. 


89 


of  an  existence  whose  curious  inward  tumults  can  only 
be  related,  —  ideas  of  flight  checked  by  the  mere  aspect 
of  my  father,  desperation  calmed  by  sleep,  desires 
repressed,  gloom  and  melancholy  charmed  away  by 
music.  I  exhaled  my  misery  in  melody.  Beethoven 
and  Mozart  were  often  my  faithful  confidants. 

"To-day  I  smile  as  I  recollect  the  scruples  which 
troubled  my  conscience  at  this  period  of  my  innocence 
and  virtue.  If  I  had  set  foot  in  a  restaurant  I  should 
have  thought  myself  ruined  ;  my  imagination  made  me 
regard  a  café  as  a  place  of  debauchery,  where  men  lost 
their  honor  and  risked  their  fortunes  ;  as  to  my  risking 
money  at  play,  I  must  first  have  had  some.  No  matter 
whether  I  send  you  to  sleep  or  not,  I  must  tell  you  one 
of  the  terrible  joys  of  my  life,  —  one  of  those  joys  that 
sometimes  come  to  us,  armed  with  claws  which  are 
driven  into  our  hearts  like  the  red-hot  iron  into  the 
shoulder  of  a  galley-slave. 

"  I  was  at  a  ball  at  the  Duc  de  Navarreins',  a  cousin 
of  my  father.  To  understand  my  position  thoroughly 
you  must  know  that  my  coat  was  shabby  and  my  shoes 
ill-made  ;  I  wore  a  coarse  cravat  and  gloves  that  had 
been  worn  already.  I  stood  in  a  corner  so  that  I 
could  take  the  ices  as  they  passed  me,  and  watch  the 
pretty  women  at  my  ease.  My  father  noticed  me. 
For  some  reason  which  I  could  never  guess,  he  gave 
me  his  purse  and  his  key  s  to  keep  for  him.  Close  by 
me  a  number  of  men  were  playing  cards.  I  heard  the 
chink  of  gold.  I  was  twenty  years  old,  and  I  had  often 
longed  to  pass  a  whole  day  plunged  in  the  crimes  of 
my  age.  It  was  a  libertinism  of  the  mind,  an  analog}' 
to  which  cannot  be  found  in  the  whims  of  a  courtesan, 


90 


The  Magic  Skin. 


nor  in  the  dreams  of  a  young  girl.  For  a  year  past 
I  had  fancied  myself  driving  in  a  carriage  with  a 
beautiful  woman  beside  me,  assuming  the  great  man, 
dining  at  Very's,  going  to  the  theatre  in  the  evening, 
determined  not  to  return  to  my  father  till  the  next 
day,  and  then  armed  to  meet  him  with  an  adventure 
as  complicated  as  the  Mariage  de  Figaro,  the  results  of 
which  he  could  not  shake  off.  I  had  estimated  all  this 
happiness  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  I  was  still, 
you  see,  under  the  innocent  charm  of  playing  truant. 
Hastily  I  turned  into  a  boudoir,  where,  entirely  alone, 
my  fingers  trembling  and  my  eyes  burning,  I  counted 
my  father's  money,  —  three  hundred  francs  !  All  my 
imagined  joys,  evoked  by  that  sum,  danced  before  me 
like  the  witches  of  Macbeth  around  their  caldron  ; 
but  mine  were  alluring,  quivering,  delightful.  I  be- 
came at  once  a  resolute  scoundrel.  Without  listening 
to  the  buzzing  in  my  ears,  or  to  the  violent  beating  of 
my  heart,  I  took  two  napoleons,  —  I  still  see  them 
before  me  !  Their  dates  and  edges  were  worn  down, 
but  Bonaparte's  face  was  grinning  on  them.  Re- 
placing the  purse  in  my  pocket,  I  returned  to  the 
card-table,  holding  the  two  pieces  of  gold  in  the  damp 
palm  of  my  hand,  and  hovering  round  the  players  like 
a  hawk  over  a  poultry-yard.  Filled  with  unspeakable 
emotions,  I  suddenly  threw  a  keen-sighted  glance 
around  me.  Certain  that  I  was  not  observed  by  any 
one  who  knew  me,  I  put  my  stake  with  that  of  a  fat 
and  jovial  little  man,  on  whose  head  I  accumulated 
more  pikers  and  vows  than  are  made  in  a  tempest  at 
sea.  Then  with  a  rascally  or  a  machiavelian  instinct, 
which  was  surprising  at  my  age,  I  posted  myself  near 


The  Magic  Skin. 


91 


a  door  and  gazed  through  the  salons,  without,  how- 
ever, seeing  an3Tthing.  My  soul  and  my  e3'es  were 
upon  that  fatal  green  table  behind  me. 

u  From  that  evening  I  date  a  first  physiological  obser- 
vation, to  which  I  have  since  owed  the  species  of  pene- 
tration which  has  enabled  me  to  grasp  and  comprehend 
certain  mysteries  of  our  dual  nature.  My  back  was 
turned  to  the  table  where  my  future  happiness  was 
at  stake,  — a  happiness  all  the  greater,  perhaps,  because 
it  was  criminal.  Between  the  players  and  myself  was 
a  hedge  of  men,  four  or  five  deep  ;  the  murmur  of 
voices  drowned  the  chink  of  gold  which  mingled  with 
the  notes  of  the  orchestra  ;  yet  in  spite  of  all  these 
obstacles,  and  by  a  gift  granted  to  the  passions  by 
which  they  are  enabled  to  annihilate  time  and  space, 
I  distinctly  heard  the  words  of  the  two  players,  I  saw 
their  hands,  I  knew  which  of  them  would  turn  up  the 
king,  just  as  plainly  as  if  I  had  actually  seen  the 
cards  ;  ten  feet  from  the  game  I  followed  all  its  intri- 
cacies. My  father  passed  me  at  that  instant,  and  I 
understood  the  saying  of  the  Scriptures,  '  The  Spirit 
of  God  passed  before  his  face.'  I  won  ;  I  rushed  to  the 
table,  slipping  through  the  eddying  crowd  of  men,  like 
an  eel  through  the  broken  meshes  of  a  net.  My  fibres, 
which  had  been  all  pain,  were  now  all  happiness.  I 
was  like  a  convict  on  his  way  to  execution,  who  meets 
the  king.  As  it  happened,  a  man  wearing  the  Legion 
of  honor  claimed  forty  francs  which  he  missed.  I  was 
suspected  by  the  eyes  about  me,  and  I  turned  pale. 
The  crime  of  having  robbed  my  father  seemed  to  me 
well  punished.  The  fat  little  man  interfered,  and  said, 
in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  me  actually  angelic,  4  These 


92 


The  Magic  Skin. 


gentlemen  all  put  down  their  stakes,'  and  paid  the 
forty  francs.  I  raised  my  head  and  threw  a  trium- 
phant glance  at  the  players.  After  replacing  the  gold 
I  had  taken  from  my  father's  purse,  I  left  my  gains 
with  the  worthy  man,  who  went  on  winning.  The 
moment  I  saw  that  I  had  one  hundred  and  sixty 
francs,  I  wrapped  them  in  my  handkerchief  so  that 
they  could  neither  roll  nor  rattle  during  our  return 
home,  and  I  played  no  more. 

"  6  What  were  you  doing  in  the  card-room?'  asked 
my  father,  as  we  were  driving  home.  '  I  was  looking 
on,'  I  answered,  trembling.  '  Well,'  returned  my 
father,  4  there  would  have  been  nothing  out  of  the 
way  if  you  had  bet  a  little  money  yourself  on  the 
game.  In  the  eyes  of  the  world  you  are  old  enough 
to  have  the  right  to  commit  a  few  follies  ;  you  had  my 
purse,  and  I  should  have  excused  }rou,  Raphael,  if  you 
had  taken  something  out  of  it.' 

" 1  could  not  answer.  When  we  got  home  I  returned 
the  keys  and  the  purse  to  nry  father,  who  emptied  the 
latter  on  the  fireplace,  counted  the  gold,  and  then  turned 
to  me  with  a  rather  kindly  manner,  sa}7ing  in  deliberate 
tones,  with  pauses  more  or  less  significant  between  each 
sentence  :  — 

"  'My  son,  you  are  now  twenty  years  old.  I  am 
satisfied  with  you.  You  must  have  an  allowance,  if 
only  to  teach  you  economy  and  give  you  a  knowledge 
of  the  things  of  life.  You  shall  have  in  future  one 
hundred  francs  a  month.  That  sum  you  can  dispose 
of  as  you  please.  Here  is  the  first  quarter  for  the 
coming  year,'  he  added,  fingering  the  pile  of  gold  as 
if  to  be  sure  of  the  sum.    I  acknowledge  that  I  came 


The  Magic  Skin. 


93 


near  flinging  myself  at  his  feet,  and  declaring  that  I 
was  a  robber,  a  scoundrel,  and  —  worse  than  all — a 
Har.  Shame  withheld  me  :  I  tried  to  kiss  him,  but  he 
repulsed  me  feebly. 

64  4  You  are  now  a  man,  my  child,'  he  said.  4  What 
I  do  is  a  simple  and  proper  thing,  for  which  you  need 
not  thank  me.  If  I  have  a  right  to  your  gratitude, 
Raphael,'  he  continued  in  a  gentler  tone,  but  full  of 
dignity  ;  4  it  is  because  I  have  saved  your  youth  from 
the  evils  which  blast  young  men.  In  future  we  will 
be  a  pair  of  friends.  You  will  take  your  degree  in  the 
course  of  a  year.  You  have,  not  without  some  annoy- 
ance and  certain  privations,  gained  sterling  friends, 
and  a  love  of  work  which  is  necessary  to  men  who  are 
to  take  part  in  the  government  of  their  country.  Learn, 
Eaphael,  to  understand  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  a 
lawyer,  nor  yet  a  notary  of  you,  but  a  statesman,  who 
may  one  day  become  the  glory  of  our  unfortunate  house. 
We  will  talk  of  these  things  to-morrow,'  he  added, 
dismissing  me  with  a  mysterious  gesture. 

4  4  After  that  day  my  father  frankly  told  me  all  his 
projects.  I  was  an  only  child,  and  my  mother  had  been 
dead  ten  years.  My  father,  the  head  of  a  half- forgotten 
historical  family  in  Auvergne,  came  to  Paris.  Gifted 
with  the  keen  perceptions  which,  when  accompanied  by 
energy,  make  the  men  of  the  south  of  France  so  supe- 
rior to  others,  he  attained  to  a  position  at  the  very 
heart  of  power,  without,  however,  possessing  much  out- 
side influence.  The  Revolution  destroy ed  his  prospects  ; 
meantime  he  had  married  the  heiress  of  a  noble  house, 
and  was  able  under  the  Empire  to  restore  the  family  to 
its  former  affluence.    The  Restoration,  which  enabled 


94 


The  Magic  Skin. 


my  mother  to  recover  some  of  her  property,  ruined  my 
father.  Having  purchased  estates  given  by  the  Emperor 
to  his  generals,  which  were  situated  in  foreign  countries, 
he  struggled  with  lawyers  and  diplomatists  and  with 
Prussian  and  Bavarian  courts  of  justice  in  the  effort  to 
retain  possession  of  these  contested  gifts.  My  father 
now  dragged  me  into  the  labyrinth  of  these  important 
suits,  on  which  our  prosperity  depended.  We  might 
be  condemned  to  refund  the  accrued  revenues,  as  well 
as  the  value  of  certain  timber  cut  from  1814  to  1816; 
in  which  case  my  mother's  property  would  barely  suffice 
to  save  the  honor  of  our  name. 

"  And  thus  it  happened  that  the  day  on  which  my 
father  seemed  to  emancipate  me,  I  fell  under  a  still 
more  cruel  yoke.  I  was  forced  to  fight  as  if  on  a  battle- 
field, to  work  night  and  day,  to  hang  around  men  in 
power  and  strive  to  interest  them  in  our  affairs,  to 
guess  at  their  opinions,  their  beliefs,  to  wheedle  them,  — 
them  and  their  wives  and  their  footmen  and  their  dogs,  — 
and  to  disguise  the  horrible  business  under  elegant 
manners  and  agreeable  nonsense.  Ah  !  I  learned  to 
understand  the  trials  which  had  blasted  m}T  father's 
face.  For  a  whole  year  I  lived  apparently  the  life  of  a 
man  of  the  world  ;  but  this  seeming  dissipation  and  my 
eagerness  to  become  intimate  with  all  who  could  be 
useful  to  us,  only  hid  an  enormous  labor.  My  amuse- 
ments were  to  draw  up  briefs,  my  conversations  were 
about  claims.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  been  virtuous 
from  the  impossibility  of  giving  way  to  the  passions  of 
a  young  man  ;  but  now,  fearing  to  cause  my  father's 
ruin  and  my  own  by  the  slightest  negligence,  I  became 
my  own  despot  and  I  allowed  myself  neither  a  pleasure 


The  Magic  Skin. 


95 


nor  an  expense.  When  we  are  young,  when  men  and 
things  have  not  yet  roughly  brushed  from  our  souls  the 
delicate  bloom  of  sentiment,  the  freshness  of  thought, 
the  purity  of  conscience,  which  will  not  let  us  come  to 
terms  with  evil,  we  are  keenly  sensitive  to  duty  ;  honor 
speaks  to  us  with  a  loud  voice,  and  we  are  forced  to 
listen  ;  we  are  honest  and  not  two-sided,  —  and  such  was 
I  at  that  time.  I  wished  to  justify  my  father's  confi- 
dence. Once  I  had  robbed  him  of  a  paltry  sum  ;  now, 
sharing  the  burden  of  his  troubles,  of  his  name,  and  his 
famity  honor,  I  would  have  given  him  all  that  I  had 
and  all  my  hopes,  just  as  I  did  actually  sacrifice  to  him 
my  pleasures,  finding  happiness  in  the  sacrifice. 

"  So,  when  at  last  Monsieur  de  Villèle  exhumed,  to  de- 
feat us,  some  imperial  decree  about  forfeitures  and  limi- 
tations, and  we  saw  ourselves  ruined,  I  signed  away 
my  rights  in  our  estates,  keeping  only  a  little  island  in 
the  Loire,  where  my  mother  was  buried.  Perhaps 
sophistries,  evasions,  and  political,  philosophical,  and 
philanthropic  arguments  might  to-day  persuade  me  not 
to  do  what  our  lawyers  then  called  a  4  folty.'  But  at 
one-and-twenty  we  are,  I  repeat,  all  generosity,  warmth, 
and  love.  The  tears  of  relief  which  I  saw  in  my  father's 
eyes  were  to  me  the  noblest  of  fortunes,  and  the  recol- 
lection of  those  tears  has  often  since  then  consoled  my 
misery. 

"  Ten  months  after  paying  his  creditors  my  father 
died  of  a  broken  heart.  He  had  loved  me  and  he  had 
ruined  me  ;  the  thought  killed  him.  Toward  the  close 
of  the  autumn  of  1825,  when  twent}T-two  years  old,  I 
followed,  all  alone,  the  body  of  my  earliest  friend,  my 
father,  to  its  grave.    Few  young  men  have  ever  found 


96 


The  Magic  Skin. 


themselves  more  completely  alone  with  their  thoughts, 
behind  a  hearse,  lost  in  the  crowds  of  Paris,  without  a 
future  and  without  means.  The  foundlings  of  public 
charity  have  at  least  a  battle-field  to  look  forward  to, 
the  Government  or  the  procureur  du  roi  for  a  father, 
the  hospital  for  a  refuge  ;  but  I — I  had  nothing. 

"  Three  months  later  the  public  administrator  paid  me 
eleven  hundred  and  twelve  francs,  the  net  proceeds  of 
the  settlement  of  m}T  father's  estate.  Our  creditors  had 
forced  me  to  sell  all  our  furniture.  Accustomed  from 
my  childhood  to  set  great  value  on  the  objects  of  art 
and  luxury  with  which  I  was  surrounded,  I  could  not 
help  showing  m}T  surprise  at  this  enforced  relinquish- 
ment of  everything.  '  Oh,'  said  the  administrator, 
c  what  matter?  those  things  are  all  so  rococo.'  Odious 
word,  which  destroyed  the  faiths  of  my  childhood,  and 
deprived  me  of  my  earliest  illusions,  — the  dearest  of 
all.  My  wealth  was  derived  from  the  surplus  of  this 
sale, — my  future  now  la}'  in  a  linen  bag  which  held 
eleven  hundred  and  twelve  francs  ;  society  appeared 
before  me  as  an  administrator's  clerk  who  kept  his  hat 
on  his  head.  A  valet,  an  old  servant  who  was  fond  of 
me,  and  to  whom  my  mother  had  left  an  annuity  of  four 
hundred  francs,  old  Jonathas,  said  to  me  as  I  left  the 
house  from  which  in  my  childhood  he  had  often  taken 
me  joyously  to  drive  in  a  carriage,  6  Be  very  econom- 
ical, Monsieur  Raphael.'    Ah  !  poor  man,  he  wept  ! 

44  Such,  my  dear  Emile,  were  the  events  which  con- 
trolled my  destin}',  trained  my  soul,  and  forced  me, 
still  3Toung,  into  the  falsest  of  all  social  positions,"  con- 
tinued Raphael,  after  a  pause.  "  Family  ties  might 
still  have  led  me  to  visit  a  few  houses,  if  my  own 


The  Magic  Shin. 


97 


pride,  and  the  contemptuous  indifference  of  their  mas- 
ters had  not  closed  the  doors.  Though  related  to 
persons  of  high  station  who  were  lavish  of  their  influ- 
ence for  strangers,  I  was  left  without  friends  or  pro- 
tectors. Checked  in  all  its  aspirations,  my  soul  fell 
back  upon  itself.  By  nature  straightforward  and  frank, 
I  now  seemed  cold  and  dissimulating.  My  father's  rigor 
had  destroyed  my  confidence  in  myself,  I  was  timid 
and  awkward  ;  I  could  not  believe  that  my  presence  had 
any  power  ;  I  was  displeasing  in  my  own  eyes,  ugly  even  ; 
I  was  ashamed  of  my  own  appearance.  In  spite  of  the 
inward  voice  which  ought  to  sustain  men  of  talent 
through  every  struggle,  and  which  did  cry  out  to  me, 
6  Courage  !  onward  !  '  in  spite  of  sudden  revelations  of 
my  power  to  my  own  spirit  in  solitude,  in  spite,  too,  of 
the  hope  which  inspired  me  as  I  compared  the  best 
works  of  the  day  with  those  that  hovered  in  my  brain, 
I  doubted  myself  as  much  as  if  I  were  a  child.  I  was 
a  victim  to  extreme  ambition  ;  I  believed  myself  des- 
tined to  do  great  things,  yet  I  felt  myself  helpless.  I 
needed  friends,  but  I  had  none.  I  ought  to  have  made 
myself  a  career  in  life,  but  I  was  forced  to  hang  back 
in  solitude,  —  less  timid,  perhaps,  than  ashamed. 

"  During  the  year  when  my  father  sent  me  into  the 
vortex  of  Parisian  society  my  heart  was  spotless  and 
my  spirit  fresh.  Like  all  grown-up  children,  I  secretly 
longed  for  a  great  love.  I  met,  among  the  young  men 
of  my  age,  a  set  of  vain-glorious  fellows  who  carried 
their  noses  in  the  air,  talked  nonsense,  seated  them- 
selves without  a  tremor  near  to  the  most  distinguished 
women,  sucked  the  heads  of  their  canes,  attitudinized, 
and  put,  or  pretended  to  put  their  heads  on  every 

7 


98 


The  Magic  Skin. 


pillow,  affecting  to  consider  the  virtuous  and  even  the 
most  prudish  women  as  an  easy  conquest,  to  be  cap- 
tured by  a  word,  a  bold  gesture,  or  the  first  insolent 
look.  I  declare  to  you  on  my  soul  and  conscience  that 
the  possession  of  power  or  great  literary  renown  seemed 
to  me  a  triumph  less  difficult  to  attain  than  success  with 
a  woman  of  high  rank,  young,  witty,  and  gracious.  I 
found  the  troubles  of  my  heart,  my  feelings,  my  beliefs, 
out  of  tune  with  the  maxims  of  society.  I  was  bold, 
but  in  soul  only  and  not  personally.  I  discovered  too 
late  that  women  do  not  like  to  be  begged  for  ;  I  have 
seen  many  that  I  adored  at  a  distance,  to  whom  I  would 
have  given  a  heart  of  proof,  a  soul  to  rend,  an  energy 
that  feared  neither  sacrifices  nor  suffering  ;  those  women 
were  won  by  fools  whom  I  would  not  hire  as  servants. 
How  many  a  time,  silent  and  motionless,  have  I  not 
admired  the  woman  of  my  dreams,  floating  through  a 
ball-room  !  Devoting  my  existence  in  thought  to  eternal 
caresses,  I  put  my  every  hope  into  a  glance  ;  I  offered 
her,  in  my  ecstasy,  the  love  of  a  man  in  whom  there 
was  no  guile.  At  moments,  I  would  have  given  my  life 
for  a  single  hour  of  mutual  love.  Well  !  I  never  found 
an  ear  in  which  to  pour  my  passionate  proposals,  nor 
an  eye  on  which  my  own  might  linger,  nor  a  heart  for 
my  heart  ;  and  thus  I  lived,  in  all  the  torments  of  a 
powerless  energj^  which  consumed  its  own  vitals,  be- 
cause I  lacked  either  boldness,  or  opportunity,  or  ex- 
perience. Perhaps  I  despaired  of  making  myself 
understood,  or  feared  to  be  understood  too  well. 

6  c  And  yet  each  courteous  look  bestowed  upon  me 
raised  a  storm.  In  spite  of  my  readiness  to  seize  upon 
such  looks  or  words  and  consider  them  as  tender  ad- 


The  Magic  Skin.  99 


vances,  I  have  never  dared  at  the  right  time  to  speak,  or 
refrain,  with  meaning  looks,  from  speaking.  My  very 
feelings  made  my  words  insignificant,  and  my  silence 
stupid.  No  doubt  there  was  too  much  simplicity  about 
me  for  an  artificial  society  that  lives  b}r  lamplight,  and 
which  utters  its  thought  in  conventional  phrases  or  fash- 
ionable words.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  art  of  speaking 
by  silence  or  of  keeping  silence  by  speech.  And  thus  I 
lived  on,  —  nursing  within  nryself  the  fires  that  scorched 
me,  gifted  with  a  soul  such  as  women  desire  to  meet,  a 
prey  to  emotions  for  which  they  are  eager,  possessing 
a  vigor  too  often  granted  only  to  fools  ;  and  yet  it  is 
névertheless  true  that  women  have  been  traitorous^ 
cruel  to  me.  How  often  have  I  honestly  admired  the 
hero  of  some  club  as  he  boasted  of  his  triumphs,  never 
suspecting  him  of  falsehood.  I  was  wrong,  no  doubt,  to 
expect  a  love  that  should  be  equal  to  mine  ;  to  seek  in  the 
heart  of  a  frivolous  and  light-minded  woman,  hungry 
after  luxury,  drunken  with  vanity,  that  vast  passion, 
that  mighty  ocean  which  beat  tempestuously  in  m}r 
own  breast.  Oh  !  to  feel  one's  self  born  to  love,  able  to 
render  a  woman  happy,  and  to  have  found  none,  not 
even  a  brave  and  noble  Marceline  nor  some  old  mar- 
quise ;  to  carry  treasures  about  with  us,  and  to  meet 
not  so  much  as  a  child  nor  an  inquisitive  young  girl 
ready  to  admire  them  !  —  I  often  longed  to  kill  myself 
in  despair  —  " 

"You  are  frightfully  tragic  to-night,"  cried  Émile. 

"Well,  let  me  curse  my  own  life,"  replied  Kaphael. 
6  4  If  your  friendship  is  not  strong  enough  to  listen  to  my 
elegy,  if  you  cannot  make  me  the  sacrifice  of  a  half- 
hour's  ennui,  then  sleep  I    But  don't  ask  me  again  the 


100 


The  Magic  Skin. 


reason  of  my  suicide  which  stands  there,  before  me,  and 
beckons  me,  and  to  which  I  yield.  Before  you  judge  a 
man  you  must  know  the  secret  of  his  thoughts,  of  his 
sorrows,  of  his  feelings  ;  not  to  be  willing  to  know  more 
of  his  life  than  its  material  events,  is  to  make  it  a  chro- 
nology, the  history  of  fools." 

The  bitter  tone  in  which  these  words  were  said  struck 
Émile  so  sharply  that  from  that  moment  he  gave  his 
whole  attention  to  his  friend's  words,  gazing  at  him  in 
a  half-besotted  way. 

"  But,"  continued  the  narrator,  "  the  light  which  time 
and  events  have  now  shed  on  these  conditions  give  them 
another  aspect.  The  order  of  things  which  I  formerly 
considered  a  misfortune,  did  perhaps  give  birth  to 
noble  faculties  in  which  later  I  took  pride.  The  love 
of  philosophic  research,  excessive  study,  delight  in 
reading,  which  from  the  age  of  seven  until  I  entered 
society  were  the  constant  occupation  of  my  life,  en- 
dowed me  with  a  facile  power  by  which,  if  }Tou  and  my 
other  friends  are  to  be  believed,  I  am  able  to  give  forth 
my  ideas  and  to  march  in  the  van  through  the  vast 
fields  of  human  knowledge.  The  neglect  to  which  I 
was  accustomed,  the  habit  of  crushing  down  my  feel- 
ings and  living  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  heart,  invested 
me  with  powers  of  meditation  and  comparison.  By  not 
wasting  my  sensibilities  in  worldly  excitements,  which 
belittle  the  noblest  soul  and  reduce  it  to  the  level  of 
trifles,  they  became  so  concentrated  as  to  be  the  perfected 
organ  of  a  will  more  powerful  than  the  impulses  of  pas- 
sion. Misunderstood  as  I  was  by  women,  I  nevertheless 
observed  and  judged  them  with  the  sagacity  of  rejected 
love.    I  can  now  see  that  the  sincerity  of  my  nature 


The  Magic  Skin. 


101 


made  me  displeasing  to  them.  Perhaps  women  prefer 
a  small  amount  of  hypocrisy.  I,  who  am  by  turns,  in 
the  course  of  an  hour,  man  and  child,  thinker  and 
trifler,  without  prejudices  and  full  of  superstitions, 
sometimes  a  woman  like  themselves,  —  may  they  not 
have  mistaken  my  natural  simplicity  for  c}rnicism,  and 
the  purity  of  my  thoughts  for  licentiousness  ?  Science 
was  weariness  of  mind  to  them  ;  poetic  languor  weak- 
ness. An  extreme  mobility  of  imagination,  the  mis- 
fortune of  poets,  made  me  seem  perhaps  incapable  of 
love,  without  constancy  of  ideas,  without  vigor.  Ap- 
parently an  idiot  when  I  held  my  tongue,  I  seemed  to 
alarm  them  when  I  tried  to  please  ;  and  so  all  women 
condemned  me.  I  accepted  with  tears  of  grief  the 
judgment  of  the  world,  but  the  punishment  bore  fruit. 
I  longed  to  avenge  mj-self  on  society.  I  desired  to 
possess  the  soul  of  all  women  by  bringing  to  my  feet 
all  minds,  and  seeing  all  eyes  fixed  upon  me  when  a 
footman,  opening  the  doors  of  salons,  should  announce 
my  name.  Many  a  time,  from  childhood  up,  had  I 
struck  my  forehead,  saying  to  myself,  like  André 
Chénier,  4  There  is  something  here  !  '  I  believed  that 
I  felt  within  me  a  thought  to  utter,  a  system  to  estab- 
lish, a  science  to  explain. 

u  Oh,  Emile!  to-day  I  am  barety  twentj^-six  years 
old  ;  I  am  doomed  to  die  unknown  without  possessing  the 
woman  whose  lover  I  dreamed  of  being,  —  let  me  there- 
fore tell  you  of  my  follies.  Have  we  not  all,  more  or 
less,  taken  our  desires  for  realities?  Ah,  I  want  no 
man  for  a  friend  who  has  never  crowned  himself  in  his 
dreams,  never  built  himself  a  pedestal,  nor  believed  in 
a  visionary  mistress.    I,  myself,  have  been  general, 


102 


The  Magic  Skin. 


emperor,  Byron,  even, — then  nothing.  After  flitting, 
as  it  were,  along  the  ridge-pole  of  human  things,  I  per- 
ceived there  were  mountains  above  me,  and  difficulties 
to  conquer.  The  egregious  self-conceit  which  boiled 
within  me,  my  sublime  belief  in  a  destin}7,  — which  be- 
comes genius,  perhaps,  if  a  man  does  not  let  his  soul  be 
caught  and  torn  by  contact  with  worldly  interests,  just 
as  a  sheep  leaves  its  fleece  on  the  thorns  of  a  thicket,  — 
these  things  saved  me.  I  resolved  to  cover  nryself  with 
glory,  and  to  work  in  silence  for  the  woman  I  hoped  to 
win.  All  women  wrere  summed  up  for  me  in  that  one 
woman,  and  I  fancied  I  should  behold  her  in  the  first 
I  met  ;  then,  finding  a  queen  in  all  of  them,  I  expected 
them,  like  queens  who  are  forced  to  make  advances  to 
their  lovers,  to  come  to  me.  —  to  me,  suffering,  and  poor, 
and  timid,  as  I  was.  Ah  !  for  her  who  would  thus  have 
pitied  me,  what  wealth  of  gratitude,  not  to  speak  of  love, 
was  in  my  heart  ;  I  could  have  adored  her  all  her  life. 
Later,  my  observation  told  me  cruel  truths. 

"  And  so,  dear  Emile,  I  came  near  living  eternally 
alone.  Women  are  wont,  I  hardly  know  through  what 
tendency  of  mind,  to  see  chiefly  the  defects  of  a  man 
of  talent  and  the  merit  of  fools  ;  they  feel  a  S3rmpathy 
with  the  good  qualities  of  the  foolish  man,  for  those 
qualities  perpetually  flatter  and  conceal  their  own 
defects  ;  while  a  superior  man  offers  them  scarcely 
enough  enjoyment  to  make  up  for  his  actual  imperfec- 
tions. Talent  is  certainly  an  intermittent  fever;  and 
no  woman  wants  to  share  its  discomforts  only  ;  they  all 
seek  in  their  lovers  something  that  satisfies  their  own 
vanity.  They  love  themselves  in  us.  A  poor  man, 
proud,  artistic,  endowed  with  the  power  of  creation,  is 


The  Magic  Skin. 


103 


also  gifted  with  too  aggressive  an  egotism.  His  exist- 
ence is  a  maelstrom  of  ideas  and  thoughts  which  in- 
volves all  about  him,  and  his  mistress  must  follow  in 
the  whirl.  How  can  a  petted  woman  believe  in  the 
love  of  such  a  man?  Would  she  ever  seek  him?  Such 
a  lover  has  no  leisure  for  the  pretty  parodies  of  senti- 
ment, the  triumph  of  false  and  callous  souls,  to  which 
women  attach  so  much  importance.  Time  is  all  too 
short  for  his  labors,  —  how  can  he  waste  it  in  bedizening 
and  belittling  himself  for  a  ball-room  ?  I  could  give  my 
life  at  a  word,  but  I  could  not  abase  it  to  frivolity. 
There  is  something  in  the  behavior  of  a  man  who  dances 
attendance  on  a  pale  and  lackadaisical  woman  which  is 
repugnant  to  the  true  artist.  The  shows  of  love  are  not 
enough  for  a  man  who  is  poor  and  jet  great  ;  he  wants 
its  devotion .  The  pretty  creatures  who  pass  their  lives 
as  lay  figures  for  the  fashions,  or  in  trying  on  a  shawl, 
have  no  devotion  ;  they  exact  it  ;  they  see  nothing  in  love 
but  the  pleasure  of  commanding,  —  never  that  of  obey- 
ing. The  true  wife  in  heart  and  in  flesh  and  bones 
will  let  herself  be  drawn  hither  and  thither  where  he 
goes  who  is  her  life,  her  strength,  her  glory,  her  happi- 
ness. Superior  men  need  women  of  oriental  natures, 
whose  sole  thought  is  the  study  of  their  needs  ;  to  them, 
a  discord  between  their  desires  and  the  means  of  satis- 
fying them  is  suffering. 

"But  I,  who  thought  myself  a  man  of  genius,  I 
was  attracted  by  the  women  of  fashion  and  frivolity. 
Brought  up  to  ideas  the  reverse  of  those  commonly 
accepted,  thinking  that  I  could  mount  the  skies  with- 
out a  ladder,  possessing  treasures  within  me  that  had 
no  vent,  bristling  with  knowledge  which  overloaded  my 


104 


The  Magic  Shin. 


memory,  and  was  never  fitly  classified  and  therefore 
never  assimilated  ;  without  relations,  without  friends, 
alone  in  the  midst  of  a  hideous  desert,  a  paved  desert, 
a  living,  thinking,  moving  desert,  where  all  was  worse 
than  inimical,  was  indifferent  to  me,  —  the  resolution 
that  I  then  took  was  natural,  though  wild.  It  brought 
with  it  something,  I  can  hardly  tell  you  what,  that  seemed 
impossible,  and  that  consequently  made  a  demand  upon 
my  courage.  It  was  as  though  I  played  a  game  with 
myself  in  which  I  was  both  the  player  and  the  stake. 
This  was  my  plan  :  My  eleven  hundred  and  twelve 
francs  were  to  suffice  for  my  livelihood  for  three  years, 
and  I  gave  myself  that  time  to  bring  ont  a  work  which 
should  attract  public  attention  and  give  me  either  fame 
or  money.  I  rejoiced  in  the  thought  that  I  should  live 
on  bread  and  milk  like  an  Egyptian  hermit,  plunged  in 
the  world  of  ideas  and  books,  a  sphere  inaccessible  in 
the  midst  of  this  tumultuous  Paris,  a  sphere  of  labor 
and  of  silence,  where,  like  a  chrysalis,  I  might  build  my- 
self a  tomb  from  which  to  rise,  new-born,  in  fame  and 
brilliancy.  I  was  about  to  risk  death  that  I  might  live. 
B}T  reducing  existence  to  its  actual  needs,  I  found  that 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  francs  a  year  would  suffice 
to  sustain  life.  That  meagre  sum  did  actually  support  me 
so  long  as  I  subjected  myself  to  cloistral  discipline  — 99 
"  Impossible  !  "  cried  Emile. 

"  I  lived  three  years  in  that  wa}',"  replied  Raphael, 
with  a  sort  of  pride.  "Count  it  up.  Three  sous  for 
bread,  two  sous  for  milk,  three  sous  for  pork,  kept  me 
from  dying  of  hunger,  and  brought  my  mind  to  a  con- 
dition of  singular  lucidity.  I  have  studied,  as  you 
know,  the  remarkable  effects  produced  by  diet  on  the 


The  Magic  Skin. 


105 


imagination.  My  lodging  cost  roe  three  sous  a  day, 
I  burned  three  sous'  worth  of  oil  a  night,  I  took  care  of 
my  own  room,  I  wore  flannel  shirts  to  save  two  sous  a 
day  in  washing.  I  kept  myself  warm  with  coal,  whose 
cost  divided  among  the  days  of  the  year  was  only  two 
sous  for  each  day.  I  had  clothes  and  linen  and  foot- 
gear enough  for  three  years,  but  I  dressed  only  when  I 
went  to  certain  public  lectures,  and  to  the  libraries. 
These  expenses  amounted  to  eighteen  sous  a  day,  and 
I  still  had  two  sous  daity  for  unexpected  wants.  I 
remember  that  I  never  during  those  three  years  crossed 
the  pont  des  Arts,  nor  did  I  ever  buy  any  water;  I 
fetched  all  I  wanted  from  the  fountain  in  the  place 
Saint-Michel,  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  des  Grès.  Oh  ! 
I  bore  my  poverty  proudly.  A  man  who  foresees  a 
splendid  future  goes  through  a  period  of  penury  like  an 
innocent  man  on  his  way  to  the  scaffold  ;  he  feels  no 
shame.  I  would  not  allow  myself  to  dread  illness. 
Like  Aquilina,  I  faced  the  hospital  without  fear.  But 
I  never  for  a  moment  doubted  my  good  health.  Be- 
sides, it  is  only  the  hopeless  who  lie  down  to  die.  I 
cut  my  own  hair,  until  the  moment  when  an  angel  of 
love  or  of  goodness  — 

"But  I  will  not  anticipate.  What  I  want  you  to 
know,  dear  friend,  is  that,  in  default  of  a  mistress, 
I  lived  with  a  great  thought,  with  a  dream,  with  a  lie 
which  we  all  begin  by  believing,  more  or  less.  To-day 
I  laugh  at  myself,  —  that  my  self,  possibly  saintly  and 
sublime,  which  no  longer  exists.  Society,  the  world, 
our  manners  and  customs  and  morals  seen  near  by, 
have  shown  me  the  dangers  of  my  innocent  belief,  and 
the  needless  waste  of  my  fervent  labors.    Such  equip- 


106 


The  Magic  Skin. 


ments  are  worse  than  useless  to  the  ambitious  ;  light 
should  be  the  baggage  of  him  who  pursues  fortune. 
It  is  a  fault  of  superior  men  that  they  spend  their 
youthful  years  in  making  themselves  worthy  of  favor. 
While  the  poor  man  heaps  up  treasures  of  his  own 
strength  and  of  science,  to  bear  the  strain  of  a  power 
that  escapes  him,  mere  schemers,  rich  in  words,  and 
wanting  in  ideas,  go  and  come,  electrify  fools,  and  win 
the  confidence  of  ninnies  ;  the  one  studies,  the  others 
move  about;  the  one  is  modest,  the  others  bold;  the 
man  of  genius  subdues  his  pride,  the  schemer  flaunts 
his  and  inevitably  succeeds.  Men  in  power  are  so 
anxious  to  find  merit  read}T-made,  and  a  brazen  show 
of  intellect,  that  it  is  childish  in  a  true  man  of  sci- 
ence to  hope  for  human  rewards.  I  certainly  am  not 
trying  to  paraphrase  the  common  doctrines  about  vir- 
tue,—  that  Song  of  Songs  forever  sung  by  neglected 
genius.  I  simply  seek  to  draw  a  just  conclusion  from 
the  frequent  successes  obtained  by  mediocre  men. 
Alas  !  study  is  so  motherly  and  kind  that  it  seems 
almost  a  crime  to  ask  her  for  other  than  the  pure  and 
gentle  joys  with  which  she  nourishes  her  children. 

"  I  remember  how  often  I  gayly  dipped  my  bread  into 
my  milk,  sitting  near  my  window  to  breathe  the  air, 
and  letting  my  eyes  wander  over  a  landscape  of  brown, 
gray,  and  red  roofs,  some  of  slate,  some  of  tiles,  cov- 
ered with  mosses  gray  or  green.  If  at  first  this 
outlook  seemed  to  me  monotonous,  I  soon  discovered 
singular  beauties  in  it.  Sometimes,  after  dark,  bright 
gleams  of  light,  escaping  from  a  half-closed  blind, 
shaded  and  animated  the  dark  depths  of  this  original 
landscape,  or  the  pale  gleam  of  the  street-lamps  sent 


The  Magic  Skin. 


107 


up  yellow  reflections  through  the  fog,  faintly  connecting 
the  streets  with  these  undulating  crowded  roofs,  like 
an  ocean  of  stationary  waves.  Sometimes  strange 
figures  made  their  appearance  in  the  middle  of  this 
dull  desert  ;  among  the  flowers  of  a  hanging  garden 
I  could  see  the  sharp,  hooked  profile  of  an  old  woman, 
watering  her  nasturtiums  ;  or,  framed  by  a  weather- 
beaten  dormer-window,  a  young  girl  stood  dressing 
and  thinking  herself  alone,  while  I  could  just  perceive 
a  handsome  forehead,  and  the  long  coils  of  hair  held 
up  by  a  pretty  arm.  Here  and  there  in  the  gutters 
were  a  few  stray  plants,  poor  weeds  soon  scattered  by 
the  wind.  I  studied  the  mosses  when  their  colors 
brightened,  after  a  rain,  from  the  dry  brown  velvet  with 
var}Ting  reflections  into  which  the  sun  had  dried  them. 
The  fugitive  and  poetic  effects  of  the  daylight,  the 
gloom  of  the  mists,  the  sudden  sparkling  of  the  sun, 
the  silence  and  magic  of  the  night,  the  mysteries  of 
the  dawn,  the  smoke  of  the  various  chimneys,  each 
and  all  of  the  changes  of  this  weird  landscape  were 
familiar  and  interesting  to  me.  I  loved  my  imprison- 
ment ;  it  was  voluntary.  These  prairies  of  undulating 
roofs  which  covered  inhabited  abysses,  suited  my  soul 
and  harmonized  with  my  thoughts.  It  is  wearisome 
to  encounter  the  world  of  social  life  when  we  descend 
from  the  celestial  heights  whither  scientific  meditations 
have  led  us  ;  and  for  this  reason  I  have  always  thor- 
oughly understood  the  bareness  of  monasteries. 

"  When  I  had  fully  resolved  to  follow  my  new  plan  of 
life,  I  looked  for  a  lodging  in  the  most  deserted  parts 
of  Paris.  One  evening,  returning  from  the  Estrapade, 
I  walked  through  the  rue  des  Cordiers  on  my  way  home. 


108 


The  Magic  Skin. 


At  the  angle  of  the  rue  de  Cluny  I  saw  a  little  girl 
about  fourteen  years  of  age,  who  was  playing  at  battle- 
dore with  a  number  of  companions,  while  their  fun  and 
laughter  amused  the  neighbors.  The  weather  was  fine, 
the  evening  warm,  and  it  was  the  latter  part  of  Novem- 
ber. Women  were  gossiping  from  door  to  door,  as 
though  they  wrere  in  some  provincial  town  on  a  fête-day. 
I  took  notice  of  the  }'oung  girl,  whose  face  was  charmingly 
expressive,  and  her  figure  a  study  for  a  painter.  The 
whole  scene  was  delightful.  I  looked  about  to  discover 
the  reason  of  this  simple-hearted  good-humor  in  the 
middle  of  Paris  ;  seeing  that  the  street  was  not  a 
thoroughfare,  I  concluded  that  few  persons  entered  it. 
Recollecting  that  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau  once  lived 
there,  I  sought  and  found  the  Hôtel  Saint-Quentin 
whose  dilapidated  appearance  encouraged  me  to  hope 
for  cheap  quarters,  and  I  entered  it.  In  the  first  low- 
ceilinged  room  were  the  time-honored  brass  candle- 
sticks, filled  with  common  tallow  candles,  methodically 
placed  above  a  row  of  keys.  I  was  struck  with  the 
cleanliness  of  this  room,  usually  ill-kept  in  other  such 
inns,  but  which  here  reminded  me  of  a  genre  picture. 
The  blue  bed,  the  utensils,  the  furniture,  all  had  a  cer- 
tain air  of  social  coquetry.  The  mistress  of  the  house, 
a  woman  of  forty,  whose  face  betrayed  sorrows  and 
whose  eyes  seemed  dulled  by  tears,  came  up  to  me  ; 
I  humbly  told  her  the  sum  I  was  able  to  pay,  and 
without  showing  surprise  she  took  a  ke}'  from  the  line 
of  hooks  and  preceded  me  to  the  garret,  where  she 
showed  me  a  room  that  looked  out  over  the  roofs  and 
down  into  the  courts  of  the  neighboring  houses,  across 
which  clothes-lines  loaded  with  linen  were  stretched 


The  Magic  Skin.  109 

j 

from  window  to  window.  Nothing  could  be  more 
odious  than  this  room  ;  its  dirty  yellow  walls,  redo- 
lent of  poverty,  seemed  to  call  aloud  for  its  penniless 
student.  The  roof  sloped  on  one  side,  and  the  dis- 
jointed tiles  left  chinks  through  which  the  daylight 
made  its  way.  There  was  room  for  a  bed,  a  table,  a 
few  chairs,  and  I  could  manage  to  squeeze  my  piano 
into  a  sharp  angle  of  the  roof.  This  cell,  worthy  of  the 
Leads  of  Venice,  was  unfurnished,  for  the  mistress  of 
the  house  was  too  poor  to  fit  it  up,  and  had  therefore 
never  let  it  ;  but  having  retained  a  few  articles  for  my 
own  personal  use  from  the  sale  of  my  furniture,  I  soon 
came  to  terms  with  m}r  hostess,  and  took  possession  of 
my  quarters  on  the  following  day. 

"I  lived  nearly  three  years  in  this  sky  sepulchre, 
working  night  and  clay  without  relaxation,  but  with  such 
delight  that  stud}7  seemed  to  me  the  noblest  occupation, 
the  happiest  solution  of  human  life.  In  the  calm,  the 
silence  necessary  to  a  student  there  is  something  not 
to  be  described,  as  sweet  and  intoxicating  as  love. 
The  exercise  of  thought,  the  searching  out  of  ideas,  the 
tranquil  meditations  of  science,  bring  ineffable,  inde- 
scribable delights, — like  all  else  that  appertains  to 
intellect,  whose  phenomena  are  invisible  to  our  exterior 
senses.  And  yet  we  are  forced  to  express  the  mysteries 
of  the  spirit  under  some  form  of  material  comparison. 
The  delight  of  swimming  in  a  pure  lake,  alone,  among 
rocks  and  woods  and  fioweiy  shores,  caressed  by  sl 
warm  breeze,  may  give  to  some  a  faint  conception  of 
the  happiness  I  felt  as  my  soul  bathed  in  the  floods 
of  a  mysterious  light,  as  I  listened  to  the  awful  and 
confused  voices  of  inspiration,  and  as,  from  some 


110 


The  Magic  Skin. 


unknown  source,  the  waters  rippled  in  my  palpitating 
brain.  To  see  an  idea  dawn  upon  the  field  of  human 
apprehension,  rising  like  the  sun  at  daybreak,  or  better 
still,  growing  like  a  child,  attaining  puberty,  slowly 
making  itself  virile,  —  ah  !  that  is  a  higher  joy  than  all 
other  terrestrial  joys  ;  it  is,  in  fact,  a  divine  pleasure. 
Study  invests  all  things  about  us  with  a  sort  of  magic. 
The  rickety  table  at  which  I  wrote,  with  its  brown 
sheepskin  cover,  my  piano,  my  bed,  my  armchair,  the 
fantastic  lines  of  the  wall-paper,  my  furniture,  —  all  these 
things  had  life  for  me  ;  they  were  my  humble  friends, 
the  silent  sharers  of  my  destin}'.  Many  a  time  have  I 
breathed  out  to  them  my  soul.  Often,  as  my  eyes 
rested  on  a  defaced  moulding,  has  my  mind  caught 
some  new  argument,  some  striking  proof  of  the  theory 
I  was  establishing,  or  certain  words  which  happily  de- 
veloped (or  so  it  seemed  to  me)  thoughts  that  could 
scarcely  be  interpreted.  By  dint  of  gazing  at  the 
objects  which  surrounded  me,  each  came  to  have  its 
individual  countenance  and  character,  each  spoke  to 
me  ;  if  the  sun,  setting  below  the  roofs,  threw  a  furtive 
ray  across  my  narrow  window  they  grew  rosy,  or  paled, 
or  shone,  or  grieved,  or  made  merry,  with  ever  new 
effects  and  surprises.  The  trifling  incidents  of  a  life  of 
solitude,  which  pass  unnoticed  among  the  busy  occupa- 
tions of  society,  are  the  consolation  of  prisoners.  "Was 
I  not  the  captive  of  an  idea,  imprisoned  in  a  theory, 
yet  supported  and  sustained  by  the  beckoning  nod  of 
fame?  At  each  conquered  difficulty  I  kissed  the  soft 
hands  of  the  rich  and  elegant  woman  with  the  beautiful 
eyes  who,  methought.  would  some  day  caress  my  hair 
and  whisper  tenderly,  ;  How  you  have  suffered  !' 


The  Magic  Skin. 


Ill 


u  I  had  undertaken  two  great  works.  A  comedy  which 
might  bring  me  swift  renown,  money,  and  entrance 
into  the  world,  where  I  wished  to  reappear  with  the 
regal  rights  of  genius.  You  all  saw  in  that  first  master- 
piece the  initial  blunder  of  a  young  man  just  out  of 
college,  a  silly  effort  of  youth.  Those  jokes  cut  the 
wings  of  my  soaring  illusions,  and  they  have  never 
flown  since.  You,  alone,  dear  Emile,  soothed  the 
wound  which  others  then  made  in  my  heart.  You 
alone  have  appreciated  my  '  Theory  of  the  Will/  —  that 
long  work  for  which  I  studied  oriental  languages,  an- 
atonry,  and  physiolog}',  and  to  which  I  devoted  nearly 
all  my  time.  That  work,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  will 
complete  the  labors  of  Mesmer,  Lavater,  Gall,  and 
Bichat,  by  opening  a  new  road  to  human  science. 

u  At  this  point,  my  grand,  m}T  noble  life  stopped  short  ; 
here  ended  those  consecrated  days,  that  silk-worm's 
toil  unknown  to  the  world,  whose  sole  recompense  is 
perhaps  in  the  toil  itself.  From  the  day  I  first  exer- 
cised my  reason  to  that  on  which  I  ended  my  '  Theor}7  ' 
I  observed,  learned,  wrote,  and  read  without  intermis- 
sion ;  my  life  was  one  long  task.  Loving  oriental 
indolence,  cherishing  re  very,  pleasure-loving  by  nature, 
I  nevertheless  denied  nryself  every  Parisian  enjo}Tment. 
Gourmand  b}<  inclination,  I  was  ascetic  in  practice  ;  lik- 
ing travel  either  by  land  or  sea,  wishing  to  visit  foreign 
countries,  finding  amusement,  like  a  child,  in  skipping 
stones  upon  the  water,  I  remained  seated  in  my  chair, 
pen  in  hand  ;  ready  and  desirous  of  speech,  I  listened 
silently  to  the  professors  in  the  lecture-room  of  the 
Bibliothèque  and  the  Museum  ;  I  slept  upon  my  solitary 
pallet  like  a  Benedictine,  and  yet  woman  was  my 


112 


The  Magic  Skin. 


dream,  my  vision,  —  a  vision  that  I  strove  to  caress  as 
it  eluded  me.  My  life  was  indeed  a  cruel  antithesis,  a 
perpetual  untruth. 

"  And  then,  —  see  what  men  are  !  —  sometimes  my 
natural  desires  revived  like  a  flame  long  smothered. 
By  a  mirage,  as  it  were,  or  possessed  by  that  delirium 
of  green  fields,  I,  deprived  of  all  the  mistresses  that  I 
coveted,  poor  and  lonely  in  my  artist's  garret,  I  fancied 
nryself  surrounded  with  delightful  women.  I  drove 
through  the  streets  of  Paris  on  the  soft  cushions  of  a 
brilliant  equipage  !  I  was  eaten  up  by  vice,  plunged  in 
excesses,  wishing  all  and  obtaining  all  ;  drunk  on  fasting, 
like  Saint  Anthony  when  tempted.  Sleep  happily  ex- 
tinguished such  maddening  visions,  and  on  the  morrow 
science  recalled  me  with  a  smile,  and  to  her  I  was  ever 
faithful.  I  imagine  that  women,  thought  virtuous,  must 
often  be  a  prey  to  these  wild  tempests  of  passions  and 
desires  which  rise  up  in  us  despite  ourselves.  Such 
dreams  are  not  without  charm  ;  they  are  like  those 
evening  talks  by  the  fireside  in  which  we  wander  to  dis- 
tant lands.  But  what  becomes  of  virtue  during  such 
excursions,  where  thought  oversprings  all  barriers  ? 

a  During  the  first  ten  months  of  my  seclusion  I  led  the 
solitary  and  poverty-stricken  life  I  have  now  depicted. 
Every  morning  I  went  out  early  and  unseen,  to  buy  my 
provisions  for  the  dajr  ;  I  cleaned  and  arranged  my 
room  ;  I  was  servant  and  master  both,  and  proudly  I 
Diogenized.  By  the  end  of  that  time,  during  which  my 
landlady  and  her  daughter  watched  my  behavior  and 
principles,  examined  into  rny  personal  life  and  under- 
stood my  poverty  (perhaps  because  they  themselves  were 
unfortunate),  there  had  come  to  be  strong  ties  between 


The  Magic  Skin. 


113 


us.  Pauline,  the  charming  child  whose  artless  grace  and 
innocence  had  first  led  me  to  the  house,  did  me  many 
services  which  it  was  impossible  to  refuse.  All  unfor- 
tunate beings  are  sisters  ;  they  speak  the  same  language, 
feel  the  same  generosity,  —  the  generosity  of  those  who, 
having  nothing,  are  prodigal  of  feeling  and  give  them- 
selves and  their  time.  Little  by  little,  Pauline  took 
control  of  my  room  and  waited  on  me  ;  to  which  her 
mother  made  no  objection.  I  saw  the  mother  herself 
mending  m}7  linen  and  blushing  when  discovered  in 
that  charitable  occupation.  Becoming  thus  in  spite  of 
myself  their  protégé,  I  accepted  their  kindness.  To 
understand  this  relation  we  must  know  the  transports 
of  mental  toil,  the  tyranny  of  ideas,  the  instinctive  re- 
pugnance for  the  petty  details  of  material  life,  which 
possess  a  man  of  genius.  How  could  I  resist  the  deli- 
cate attention  with  which  Pauline,  stepping  softly, 
placed  my  frugal  food  beside  me,  when  she  noticed  that  I 
had  eaten  nothing  for  seven  or  eight  hours  ?  With  the 
grace  of  a  woman  and  the  artlessness  of  a  child,  she 
would  smile  with  a  finger  on  her  lips,  as  if  to  tell  me 
that  I  must  not  notice  her.  She  was  Ariel  gliding  like 
a  sylph  beneath  my  roof  and  foreseeing  my  needs. 

"  One  evening  Pauline  with  simple  sincerity  told  me 
their  history.  Her  father  had  commanded  a  squadron 
of  the  grenadiers  of  the  Imperial  Guard.  He  was  taken 
prisoner  by  Cossacks  at  the  passage  of  the  Beresina. 
Later,  when  Napoleon  proposed  to  exchange  him,  the 
Russian  authorities  searched  Siberia  in  vain  ;  it  was 
said  by  other  prisoners  that  he  had  escaped  to  India. 
From  that  time  Madame  Gaudin,  my  landlady,  had 
heard  nothing  of  her  husband.    The  disasters  of  1814 

8 


114 


The  Magic  Skin. 


and  1815  occurred  ;  alone,  without  resources,  she  deter- 
mined to  keep  a  lodging-house  for  the  support  of  her- 
self and  daughter.  The  hope  of  recovering  her  husband 
never  left  her.  Her  cruellest  suffering  came  from  the 
necessity  of  leaving  Pauline  without  education, — her 
Pauline,  the  goddaughter  of  the  Princesse  Borghese, 
now  deprived  of  all  the  advantages  promised  by  her 
imperial  protectress.  When  Madame  Gandin  confided 
to  me  this  bitter  grief,  which  was  literally  killing  her, 
she  said  in  heartrending  tones  :  — 

"  '  I  would  gladly  give  Gaudin's  rank  as  Baron  of  the 
Empire  and  our  rights  in  the  endowment  of  Witzchnau, 
if  Pauline  could  be  educated  at  Saint-Denis.' 

"  As  she  spoke  a  thought  made  me  quiver  ;  to  repay 
the  care  these  two  good  women  bestowed  upon  me  I 
offered  to  teach  Pauline.  The  simplicity  with  which 
they  received  the  proposal  was  equal  to  that  which  dic- 
tated it.  I  thus  gained  hours  of  recreation.  The  little 
girl  had  charming  qualities  ;  she  learned  with  ease,  and 
she  soon  excelled  me  on  the  piano.  Being  encouraged 
to  think  aloud  when  she  was  with  me,  she  displayed  a 
thousand  little  prettinesses  of  a  heart  that  opened  to 
life  like  the  petals  of  a  flower  gently  unclosing  to  the 
sun.  She  listened  to  what  I  said  composedly  and  with 
pleasure  ;  fixing  upon  me  her  soft,  velvety,  black  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  smile,  she  repeated  her  lessons  in  a 
sweet,  caressing  voice,  and  showed  a  childish  joy  when 
I  was  satisfied  with  her.  Her  mother,  growing  daily 
more  and  more  anxious  to  preserve  her  from  all  danger, 
and  to  let  the  graces  of  her  nature  grow  and  develop, 
was  pleased  to  see  her  given  up  to  study.  My  piano 
was  the  only  one  she  could  use,  and  she  took  advantage 


The  Magie  Skin. 


115 


of  my  absences  to  practise  upon  it.  When  I  returned  I 
alwa}rs  found  her  in  my  room,  in  the  humblest  of  dresses, 
and  yet  at  every  movement  of  her  supple  body  the  charms 
of  her  figure  could  be  seen  beneath  the  coarse  material. 
Like  the  heroine  of  6  The  Ass's  Skin,'  she  had  a  tiny 
foot  in  a  rough  shoe.  But  all  these  pretty  treasures,  this 
wealth  of  girlish  charm,  this  luxury  of  beaut}^  was  lost 
upon  me.  I  bade  myself  regard  her  as  a  sister,  and  I 
should  have  shrunk  with  horror  from  betraying  her 
mother's  confidence.  I  admired  the  charming  child 
like  a  picture,  like  the  portrait  of  some  lost  mistress. 
She  was  my  child,  my  statue  ;  I  was  another  Pygmalion, 
seeking  to  make  a  living,  blooming,  thinking,  speaking 
virgin  into  marble.  I  was  very  severe  with  her,  but 
the  more  I  made  her  feel  my  authorit}^  the  gentler  and 
more  submissive  she  grew.  A  sense  of  honor  strength- 
ened and  maintained  my  reserve  and  self-control.  To 
betray  a  woman  and  to  become  bankrupt  have  always 
seemed  to  me  one  and  the  same  thing.  To  love  a  young 
girl,  or  let  one's  self  be  loved  by  her,  constitutes  a  con- 
tract whose  conditions  should  be  clearly  understood. 
We  may  abandon  the  women  who  sell  themselves,  but 
never  the  young  girl  who  gives  her  love,  for  she  is  ig- 
norant of  the  extent  of  her  sacrifice.  I  might  have 
married  Pauline,  but  it  would  have  been  madness.  I 
should  have  delivered  over  that  gentle  virgin  soul  to 
unutterable  misery.  My  poverty  spoke  with  its  own 
egotistical  language,  and  placed  its  iron  hand  forever 
between  her  soul  and  mine. 

'  '  I  confess  to  my  shame  that  I  have  no  conception  of 
love  in  poverty.  It  may  be  a  moral  vitiation  in  me,  due 
to  the  human  malady  called  civilization,  but  a  woman, 


116 


The  Magic  Skin. 


be  she  as  beautiful  as  Helen  of  Troy  or  Homer's  Gala- 
tea, has  no  power  over  my  senses  if  she  is  squalid. 
Hail  to  the  love  in  silks  and  satins,  surrounded  by  those 
marvels  of  luxury  that  adorn  it  so  well,  for  it  is  itself, 
perhaps,  a  luxury.  I  like  to  crumple  in  fancy  the  crisp, 
fresh  dresses,  to  crush  the  flowers,  and  bury  a  devas- 
tating hand  among  the  elegantly  arranged  tresses  of  a 
perfumed  head.  Glowing  eyes,  hiding  behind  a  veil  of 
lace,  yet  piercing  it  as  flame  tears  through  the  smoke 
of  a  cannon,  offer  me  mysterious  delights.  My  love 
longs  for  silken  ladders  to  scale  in  silence  on  winter 
nights.  What  happiness  to  enter,  covered  with  snow,  a 
lighted  and  perfumed  chamber,  tapestried  with  painted 
silks,  and  to  find  there  a  woman  covered  like  ourselves 
with  snow,  —  for  how  else  shall  we  call  those  alluring 
veils  of  muslin,  through  which  she  is  vaguely  seen  like 
an  angel  coming  through  a  cloud  ?  But  my  desires  are 
various  ;  I  ask  for  timid  happiness,  and  for  bold  secu- 
rity ;  moreover,  I  wish  to  meet  my  mysterious  ideal  in 
the  world,  dazzling,  yet  virtuous,  the  centre  of  homage, 
robed  in  laces,  adorned  with  diamonds,  giving  laws  to 
social  life  ;  so  high  in  rank,  and  so  imposing,  that  none 
shall  dare  to  seek  her  love.  From  the  midst  of  such 
courtly  reverence  she  should  fling  me  a  side-glance,  a 
glance  that  made  these  adventitious  charms  of  no  ac- 
count, a  glance  in  which  she  sacrificed  the  world  and 
other  men  to  me.  How  often  have  I  not  felt  myself  a 
fool  to  love  a  few  yards  of  blonde,  or  velvet,  or  fine 
linen,  the  art  of  a  hairdresser,  carriages,  titles,  heraldic 
blazons  painted  on  glass  or  manufactured  by  a  jew- 
eller, —  in  short,  all  that  is  most  artificial  and  least 
womanly  in  woman.    I  ridiculed  myself,  I  reasoned 


The  Magic  Skin. 


117 


with  myself,  but  all  in  vain.  The  refined  smile  of  a 
high-bred  woman,  the  distinction  of  her  manners,  her 
respect  for  her  own  person,  enchant  me  ;  the  very  bar- 
rier that  she  thus  puts  between  herself  and  the  world 
flatters  every  vanity  within  me,  and  is  the  half  of  love. 
Envied  for  the  possession  of  such  a  woman,  m}-  felicity 
would  have  a  higher  flavor.  By  doing  nothing  that 
other  women  do,  neither  moving  nor  living  as  they 
do,  wrapped  in  a  mantle  that  they  can  never  wear, 
shedding  a  perfume  of  her  own  about  her,  my  mistress 
would  seem  to  me  more  mine  ;  the  farther  she  were 
removed  from  earth,  even  in  all  that  makes  love  earthly, 
the  more  beautiful  she  would  be  to  my  eyes.  HappiljT, 
France  has  been  without  a  queen  for  twent}^  years,  or 
I  should  have  loved  the  queen.  But  to  have  the  waj's 
of  a  princess,  a  woman  must  needs  be  rich. 

"In  presence  of  such  romantic  fancies  what  was  Pau- 
line? Could  she  give  me  the  love  that  kills,  that  forces 
into  play  all  human  faculties,  that  costs  us  life  itself? 
Who  dies  for  the  girls  who  give  themselves,  poor 
things?  I  have  never  been  able  to  overcome  such 
feelings  as  these,  nor  the  poetic  reveries  they  excite. 
I  was  born  for  an  impossible  love,  and  fate  has  willed 
that  I  should  meet  with  something  far  be}  ond  my 
wishes.  Many  a  time  I  have  fancied  Pauline's  little 
feet  encased  in  satin  slippers,  her  round  waist,  slender 
as  a  young  poplar-tree,  imprisoned  in  a  gauzy  robe,  a 
lace  scarf  thrown  about  her  neck  and  bosom,  as  I  led 
her  down  the  carpeted  stairs  of  a  mansion  to  the  car- 
riage at  the  door.  I  should  have  adored  her  thus.  I 
gave  her,  in  fancy,  a  pride  she  never  had  ;  I  robbed 
her  of  her  virtues,  her  artless  grace,  her  candid  smile, 


118 


The  Magic  Skin. 


the  simplicity  of  her  nature  ;  I  plunged  her  into  the 
Styx  of  our  social  vices  ;  I  hardened  her  heart  that  she 
might  bear  the  burden  of  our  sins,  and  become  the 
silly  puppet  of  our  salons,  the  languid  creature  who 
lies  in  bed  all  day,  and  revives  by  night  at  the  dawn 
of  a  blaze  of  lamps.  Pauline  was  all  freshness,  all  feel- 
ing, but  I  could  only  care  for  her  if  cold  and  hard. 

"  In  the  latter  da}'s  of  my  madness  I  looked  back  to 
Pauline  as  we  do  to  some  memory  of  our  childhood. 
More  than  once  the  recollection  has  deeply  moved  me  ; 
I  recalled  delightful  moments  ;  once  more  I  saw  her 
seated  by  my  table  with  her  sewing,  —  silent,  tranquil, 
composed,  with  faint  lights  from  my  garret  window 
falling  in  silvery  reflections  upon  her  ebon  hair  ;  I  heard 
her  girlish  laughter,  her  voice,  with  its  rich  inflections 
warbling  the  pretty  ballads  she  composed  with  ease. 
Often  my  Pauline  grew  transfigured  as  she  sang  or 
played,  and  at  such  times  her  face  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  the  noble  head  by  which  Carlo  Dolci 
has  represented  Italy.  My  bitter  memor}'  flings  that 
innocent  girl  like  a  remorse  across  the  excesses  of  my 
life  ;  she  stands  before  me  the  image  of  womanhood 
and  virtue.  But  let  us  leave  her  to  her  destiny.  How- 
ever wretched  that  may  be,  I  have  at  least  sheltered  her 
from  the  awful  storms  of  my  existence,  and  refrained 
from  dragging  her  to  the  depths  of  my  own  hell. 

"  Until  last  winter  my  life  was  the  calm  and  studious 
life  I  have  tried  to  picture  to  you.  Early  in  December, 
1829,  I  met  Eugene  de  Easfignac,  who  in  spite  of  my 
shabby  clothes  put  his  arm  in  mine,  and  inquired  into 
my  condition  with  brotherly  interest.  Won  by  those 
charming  manners  of  his,  I  told  him,  briefly,  about  my 


Tlie  Magic  Skin. 


m 


life  and  my  hopes  ;  he  laughed,  and  declared  I  was  a 
man  of  genius  and  a  fool.  His  Gascon  voice,  his 
knowledge  of  the  world,  his  opulent  style  of  living, 
which  he  owes  to  his  wits,  have  an  irresistible  power 
over  me.  He  declared  I  should  die  in  a  hospital, 
ignored  as  an  imbecile,  pictured  my  funeral,  and 
buried  me  in  a  pauper's  grave.  Then  he  began  to 
expound  charlatanism  ;  with  the  good-natured  warmth 
that  makes  him  so  attractive,  he  insisted  that  all  men 
of  genius  are  humbugs.  He  declared  I  had  one  sense 
lacking,  and  risked  death  if  I  persisted  in  staying  alone 
in  the  rue  des  Cordiers  ;  he  urged  me  to  return  to 
society,  and  make  my  name  familiar  in  people's  mouths, 
and  get  rid  of  the  humble  monsieur,  which  was  very 
unbecoming  to  a  great  man  during  his  lifetime. 

"  '  Idiots  call  that  kind  of  life  time-serving,'  he  cried  ; 
'  moral  folks  proscribe  it  as  dissipated.  Never  mind  about 
men  and  their  opinions,  look  at  results.  Here  you  are, 
toiling  incessantly,  yet  you  '11  never  accomplish  anything. 
Now  I  am  capable  of  everything  and  good  at  nothing, 
laz}7  as  a  lobster,  but  I  succeed.  I  spread  myself  about, 
I  push,  and  society  makes  room  for  me  ;  I  brag,  and  it 
believes  me  ;  I  make  debts,  and  other  people  pay  them. 
Dissipation,  my  dear  fellow,  is  a  political  system.  The 
life  of  a  man  who  is  employed  in  squandering  his  means 
is  unmistakably  a  speculation  ;  he  invests  his  capital 
in  friends,  in  pleasures,  in  acquiring  connections  and 
influence.  A  merchant  risks  a  million  ;  for  twenty 
years  he  neither  sleeps  nor  drinks  nor  amuses  himself. 
He  broods  over  his  million,  he  trots  it  from  place  to 
place  all  over  Europe  ;  he  is  worried  to  death  ;  all  the 
devils  are  after  it;  then  comes  failure,  liquidation  (I've 


120 


The  Magic  Shin. 


seen  it  man}'  a  time),  and  there  he  is,  without  a  penny, 
without  a  name,  without  a  friend.  The  spendthrift,  on 
the  other  hand,  does  amuse  himself  ;  he  knows  how  to 
race  his  horse.  If,  by  chance,  he  loses  his  capital,  he 
can  get  himself  appointed  receiver-general,  secretary  to 
a  ministry,  ambassador,  —  or  he  marries.  He  is  sure  to 
have  friends,  reputation,  and  plenty  of  money.  Know- 
ing the  secret  springs  of  society,  he  works  them  to  his 
profit.  Is  that  system  logical,  or  am  I  a  fool?  Isn't 
that  the  moral  of  the  comedy  that  is  played  every  day 
in  the  world?  Your  work  is  just  finished,  you  sa}7/ 
resumed  Rastignac  after  a  pause  ;  4  you 've  got  immense 
talent.  Well,  what  of  it?  you  are  now  just  at  the  point 
where  I  started.  Make  your  success  personally  for 
yourself,  it  is  the  surest  way.  Set  up  friendships  and 
intimacies  at  the  clubs  and  with  cliques  ;  please  those 
wrho  can  trumpet  you  along.  I  wish  to  do  my  share 
toward  your  success;  I'll  be  the  jeweller  to  set  the 
diamonds  in  your  crown.  And  for  a  beginning,'  he 
added,  1  come  to  my  rooms  to-morrow  night.  I  will 
take  you  to  a  house  where  you  will  find  all  Paris,  our 
Paris,  the  Paris  of  beauties,  celebrities,  and  millionnaires, 
men  who  talk  gold  like  Chrysostom.  When  such  people 
adopt  a  book  that  book  becomes  the  fashion  ;  if  it  is 
really  good  they  have  given  the  brevet  of  genius  without 
knowing  it.  If  you  have  any  mother- wit  in  you,  my 
dear  fellow,  you  can  yourself  make  the  fortune  of  your 
theory  by  thoroughly  understanding  the  theory  of  for- 
tune. To-morrow  night  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  Com- 
tesse Fedora,  the  reigning  fashion.' 
"  6 1  never  heard  of  her.' 

"  '  You  're  a  Caffre/  said  Rastignac,  laughing.   6  Not 


The  Magie  Skin.  121 

know  Fedora!  —  a  marriageable  woman,  who  has  an 
income  of  eight}^  thousand  francs,  but  won't  take  any 
man,  or  at  least  whom  no  man  takes  ;  a  species  of 
female  problem  ;  a  Parisian  who  is  half-Russian,  a  Rus- 
sian half- Parisian  ;  a  woman  who  is  a  living  edition  of 
romantic  productions  that  never  get  published  ;  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  Paris,  and  the  most  courteous.  You 
are  not  even  a  Caffre,  you  are  the  missing  link  between 
a  Caffre  and  the  animal  creation.  Adieu  until  to- 
morrow.' 

"  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  disappeared  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  seeming  not  to  admit  that  a  reason- 
able man  could  refuse  an  introduction  to  Fedora.  How 
can  we  explain  the  fascination  of  a  name?  Fedora 
pursued  me  like  an  evil  thought  with  which  we  strive 
to  compromise.  A  voice  within  me  said,  6  Thou  wilt 
go  to  Fedora.'  In  vain  I  combated  that  voice  and  told 
it  that  it  lied  ;  it  crushed  my  arguments  with  that 
name,  Fedora.  That  name,  that  woman,  were  they  the 
symbol  of  my  desires,  the  key-note  of  my  life?  The 
name  rang  with  the  artificial  poetry  of  society,  with  the 
fêtes  of  the  great  world  of  Paris  and  the  glitter  of  all 
vanities.  The  woman  appeared  to  me  as  in  a  vision, 
embodying  those  problems  of  passion  over  which  I 
brooded.  Perhaps  it  was  neither  the  woman  nor  the 
name,  but  my  vices  which  sprang  erect  in  my  mind  to 
tempt  me  anew.  The  Comtesse  Fedora,  rich  and  with- 
out a  lover,  resisting  Parisian  seductions,  was  she  not 
the  incarnation  of  my  hopes  and  visions  ?  I  had  created 
a  woman  ;  my  thought  had  formed  her  ;  I  had  dreamed 
her,  —  and  she  was  here. 

44  During  the  night  I  could  not  sleep  ;  I  became  her 


122  The  Magic  Skin. 

m 

lover.  A  few  hours  were  a  lifetime,  —  a  lifetime  of  love  ; 
I  tasted  all  its  fruitful  and  passionate  delights.  On  the 
morrow,  unable  to  bear  the  suspense  of  waiting  till 
evening,  I  went  out  and  hired  a  novel  and  spent  the 
day  in  reading  it,  thus  endeavoring  not  to  think  and  not 
to  measure  the  slow  passage  of  time.  While  I  read, 
that  name,  Fedora,  echoed  within  me  like  a  sound  heard 
in  the  far  distance  which  does  not  disturb  us  but  is, 
nevertheless,  in  our  ears.  Fortunately  I  owned  a  black 
coat  and  a  white  waistcoat  in  good  condition.  Of  all  niy 
little  store  there  still  remained  some  thirty  francs  which 
I  had  dispersed  about  in  my  various  drawers  and  among 
my  clothes,  so  as  to  put  between  each  five-franc  piece 
and  some  straj'  fancy  the  thorn}-  barrier  of  search  and 
the  trouble  of  circumnavigating  my  room.  While  I  was 
dressing  I  pursued  this  scattered  wealth  through  an 
ocean  of  paper.  My  gloves  and  a  cab  devoured  a  month's 
living.  Alas  !  we  are  never  without  money  for  our 
whims  ;  we  discuss  no  costs  but  those  of  necessary  or 
useful  things.  We  carelessly  fling  away  our  gold  on  a 
ballet-girl,  and  haggle  over  a  bill  with  a  laborer  whose 
family  is  starving.  How  many  men  wearing  a  hundred- 
franc  coat,  and  a  diamond  in  the  knob  of  their  cane, 
dine  for  twenty-five  sous  !  Ah  !  we  seldom  think  the 
pleasures  of  vanity  too  dear. 

"  Eastignac,  faithful  to  our  appointment,  smiled  at  my 
metamorphose  and  made  fun  of  it  ;  however,  he  gave 
me,  as  we  went  along,  some  charitable  advice  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  I  had  best  behave  with  the  countess. 
He  told  me  she  was  avaricious,  vain,  and  distrustful; 
but  good-humoredly  distrustful,  vain  with  simplicity, 
and  miserly  with  ostentation. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


123 


"  '  You  know  how  I  am  situated,'  he  said,  fi  and  how 
much  I  should  lose  by  changing  loves.  My  observation 
of  Fedora  is  disinterested  and  cool  ;  therefore  m}T  judg- 
ment is  worth  something.  I  present  you  to  her  with  a 
view  of  making  }7our  fortune  ;  take  care  what  you  say 
to  her,  for  she  has  a  cruel  memory,  and  is  clever  enough 
to  drive  a  diplomatist  crazy  ;  she  can  guess  the  very 
instant  when  he  begins  to  tell  the  truth.  Between  our- 
selves, I  doubt  if  her  marriage  was  ever  recognized  by 
the  emperor,  for  the  Russian  ambassador  laughed  when 
I  asked  him  about  her.  He  does  not  receive  her  at 
the  embassy,  and  bows  very  coldly  when  they  meet  in 
the  Bois.  Nevertheless,  she  belongs  in  Madame  de 
Sérizy's  set,  and  visits  Madame  de  Nucingen  and 
Madame  de  Restaud.  In  France,  at  any  rate,  her  repu- 
tation is  intact.  The  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  the  most 
high-necked  of  all  that  Bonapartist  clique,  often  spends 
a  few  days  with  her  at  her  counts-house.  Several 
young  dandies  and  the  son  of  a  peer  offer  their  names 
in  exchange  for  her  money  ;  but  she  politely  refuses 
them.  Perhaps  her  love  can  go  no  lower  than  a  count. 
You  are  a  marquis  ;  therefore  push  on  if  she  pleases 
you.    Now  that 's  what  I  call  giving  advice.' 

"  The  tone  in  which  all  this  was  said  made  me  fancy 
that  Rastignac  was  trying  to  pique  m}-  curiosity,  so 
that  my  impromptu  passion  had  reached  a  crisis  by  the 
time  we  entered  a  hall  decorated  with  flowers.  As  we 
went  up  the  wide,  carpeted  stairs,  where  I  noticed  many 
signs  of  English  comfort,  my  heart  beat  violently.  I 
blushed  at  myself;  I  belied  ury  birth,  my  feelings,  my 
pride  ;  I  was  idiotically  bourgeois  in  my  sensations. 
Alas,  I  came  from  a  garret  where  I  had  spent  three 


124 


The  Magic  Skin. 


poverty-stricken  years  without  really  learning  to  put  the 
treasures  of  intellectual  life  above  the  baubles  of  an 
artificial  existence. 

"  As  I  entered  I  saw  a  woman  about  twenty-two  years 
of  age,  of  medium  height,  dressed  in  white,  surrounded 
by  a  circle  of  men,  extended  rather  than  seated  in  a 
reclining  chair,  and  holding  in  her  hand  a  feather  screen. 
When  she  observed  Rastignac,  she  rose  and  came  toward 
us  with  a  gracious  smile,  and  paid  me  a  conventional 
compliment  in  a  melodious  voice.  Eugene  gave  her  the 
idea  that  I  was  a  man  of  talent,  and  his  hearty  Gascon 
emphasis  procured  me  a  cordial  reception.  I  was  made 
the  object  of  attentions  which  confused  me,  but  Rastignac 
happily  covered  my  embarrassment  by  an  allusion  to  my 
modesty.  There  I  met  scholars,  men  of  letters,  former 
ministers,  and  peers  of  France.  The  conversation  re- 
sumed the  course  our  entrance  had  interrupted,  and  by 
degrees,  feeling  that  I  had  a  reputation  to  sustain,  I 
grew  more  confident  ;  then,  without  presuming  on  the 
right  of  speech  which  was  granted  to  me,  I  tried  to  sum 
up  the  various  points  of  the  discussion  with  remarks 
that  were  more  or  less  thoughtful,  incisive,  or  witty. 
I  made  some  sensation.  For  the  thousandth  time  in 
his  life  Rastignac  was  prophetic.  When  the  rooms  were 
sufficiently  well  filled  so  that  we  could  freely  move 
about,  he  gave  me  his  arm,  and  we  walked  through  the 
apartments. 

"  '  Don't  seem  too  enchanted  with  the  princess,'  he 
said,  1  or  she  will  guess  the  motive  of  your  visit.' 

"  The  salons  were  furnished  with  exquisite  taste.  I 
noticed  rare  pictures.  Each  room  had  a  character  of 
its  own,  after  the  fashion  of  opulent  English  mansions  ; 


The  Magic  Skin. 


125 


the  silken  hangings,  the  ornaments,  the  shapes  of  the 
furniture,  in  fact  the  slightest  decoration  harmonized 
with  a  leading  thought.  In  a  Gothic  boudoir  the  doors 
were  concealed  behind  tapestried  curtains  ;  the  border- 
ing of  the  stuffs,  the  clock,  the  pattern  of  the  carpet, 
were  all  Gothic  ;  the  ceiling,  formed  of  cross-beams 
carved  out  of  dark  wood,  showed  a  number  of  com- 
partments painted  with  grace  and  originality  ;  the 
panelling  of  the  wainscots  was  artistic  ;  nothing  injured 
the  general  effect  of  this  charming  decoration,  which 
was  even  increased  by  the  costly  colored  glass  of  the 
windows.  I  was  next  astonished  at  the  sight  of  a  little 
modern  salon,  where  some  artist  had  exhausted  our  na- 
tional decorative  science,  —  at  once  so  delicate,  so  fresh, 
so  elegant,  without  brilliancy,  and  sober  in  gilding.  It 
was  vague  and  amorous  like  a  German  ballad,  a  true 
retreat  for  a  passion  of  1827,  perfumed  with  baskets  of 
the  choicest  plants.  Beyond  this  room  was  a  gilded 
salon  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.,  which  produced,  by 
its  contrast  with  our  modern  taste,  a  curious  but  agree- 
able effect. 

"  'You  will  be  well  lodged/  said  Rastignac,  with  a 
smile,  in  which  there  was  a  tinge  of  irony.  6  Is  n't  this 
fascinating?'  he  added,  sitting  down.  Suddenly  he 
rose,  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  drew  me  into  a  bedroom, 
where,  beneath  a  canopy  of  muslin  and  white  moire, 
was  a  bed  faintly  lighted  by  a  hanging  lamp,  —  the  bed 
of  a  fairy  wedded  to  a  genie. 

"  6  Don't  you  think  there  is  a  positive  indecencj^,  in- 
solence, and  coquetry,'  he  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice, 
8  in  exhibiting  this  throne  of  love  !  To  love  no  one, 
and  then  allow  everybody  to  leave  his  card  here  !    If  I 


126 


The  Magic  Skin. 


were  free,  I  would  like  to  bring  that  woman  weeping  and 
submissive  to  her  knees  !  ' 

' 1  c  Are  you  sure  of  her  virtue  ?  9 

"  4  The  boldest  men  of  the  world,  and  the  most  expe- 
rienced, admit  that  they  have  failed  in  winning  her  ; 
they  also  declare  that  they  still  love  her,  *and  are  now 
her  devoted  friends.    The  woman  is  an  enigma  !  ' 

"  These  words  excited  me  to  a  sort  of  intoxication  ;  I 
was  jealous  of  the  past.  Returning  hastily  toward  the 
countess,  whom  I  had  left  in  the  salon,  I  found  her  in 
the  Gothic  boudoir.  She  greeted  me  with  a  smile, 
asked  me  to  sit  by  her,  and  questioned  me  on  my  lit- 
erary  work,  seeming  to  take  a  keen  interest  in  my  an- 
swers,—  especially  when  I  explained  my  theory,  which 
I  did  half  in  jest  instead  of  employing  the  terms  of  a 
professor  and  explaining  it  dogmatically.  She  was 
much  amused  by  the  idea  that  the  human  will  is  a 
material  force  like  that  of  steam  ;  that  nothing  in  the 
moral  world  can  resist  its  power  if  a  man  accustoms 
himself  to  concentrate  it,  to  hold  it  in  hand,  and  to 
direct  the  propulsion  of  this  fluid  mass  upon  the  con- 
sciousness of  other  men  ;  that  a  man  possessing  this 
power  could  modify  all  things  relating  to  humanity  as 
he  pleased,  even  the  laws  of  nature.  Fedora's  objec- 
tions to  my  theory  proved  her  to  possess  a  certain 
keenness  of  intellect.  I  took  delight  in  flattering  her 
with  explanations,  while  I  destroyed  her  feminine  ar- 
guments with  a  word,  drawing  her  attention  to  a  fact  • 
of  daily  life,  namely,  sleep,  —  apparently  the  most 
common  of  all  facts,  yet  an  insoluble  problem  for  the 
man  of  science.  This  piqued  her  curiosity.  She  even 
remained  silent  while  I  told  her  that  ideas  were  organ- 


The  Magic  Skin. 


127 


ized  and  perfected  beings  living  in  a  world  invisible,  — 
citing  in  proof  thereof  that  the  thoughts  of  Descartes, 
Diderot,  and  Napoleon  had  led,  and  were  still  leading, 
an  epoch.  I  had  the  honor  to  amuse  her,  and  she  left 
me  with  an  invitation  to  visit  her  again  ;  in  the  lan- 
guage of  courts,  she  gave  me  the  grandes  entrées. 

"  Whether  it  were  that  I  took  the  formulas  of  polite- 
ness for  words  of  real  meaning,  or  that  Fedora  thought 
me  a  man  of  rising  fame  and  wished  to  add  to  her 
menagerie  of  savants,  it  is  certain  that  I  fancied  I 
pleased  her.  I  called  up  all  my  physiological  knowl- 
edge and  my  previous  studies  of  womanhood,  to  help 
me  in  examining  this  singular  person  and  her  manners, 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Hidden  in  the  recess  of 
a  window,  I  pried  into  her  thoughts  as  expressed  by 
her  bearing  ;  I  studied  her  by-play  as  mistress  of  the 
house, — passing  to  and  fro,  sitting  down,  conversing, 
calling  to  one  man,  questioning  another,  and  leaning, 
as  she  listened,  against  the  lintel  of  a  door.  I  noticed 
,  a  soft  and  breezy  motion  in  her  walk,  an  undulation  of 
her  graceful  dress,  a  potent,  seductive  charm,  which 
made  me  suddenly  incredulous  of  her  virtue.  Though 
Fedora  now  denied  herself  to  love,  she  must  once  have 
been  a  passionate  woman  ;  the  signs  of  it  were  in  her 
choice  of  attitudes.  She  leaned  against  the  panelling 
coquettishly,  like  a  woman  about  to  fall,  yet  read}*  to 
fly  if  some  too  ardent  look  affrighted  her.  Her  arms 
were  lightly  crossed  ;  she  seemed  to  breathe-in  words, 
to  hear  and  welcome  them  with  her  eyes,  while  her 
whole  person  exhaled  sentiment.  The  fresh,  red  lips 
were  defined  upon  a  skin  of  dazzling  whiteness.  Her 
brown  hair  brought  out  clearly  the  orange  tints  of  her 


128 


The  Magic  Skin. 


eyes,  which  were  rayed  or  veined  like  a  Florentine 
agate,  —  seeming  to  add  by  their  expression  a  subtile 
charm  to  her  speech.  The  lines  of  the  bust  and  waist 
had  a  grace  that  was  all  their  own.  A  rival  might 
have  called  the  heavy  eyebrows,  which  nearly  met 
each  other,  hard  ;  or  condemned  the  light  down  which 
defined  the  outlines  of  the  face.  To  my  eyes,  passion 
was  imprinted  everywhere.  Love  was  written  on  the 
Italian  eyelids,  on  the  fine  shoulders,  worthy  of  the 
Venus  of  Milo,  on  each  feature  of  her  face,  on  the  un- 
der lip,  which  was  a  shade  too  heavy,  and  slightly 
shadowed.  She  was  more  than  a  woman,  —  she  was 
a  history,  a  romance.  Yes,  this  rich  feminity,  this 
harmonious  assemblage  of  lines,  these  promises  of  pas- 
sion given  by  this  noble  structure,  were  tempered  and 
subdued  by  unfailing  reserve,  and  a  singular  modesty, 
which  contrasted  strangely  with  the  whole  expression 
of  her  person. 

64  Perhaps  it  needed  a  sagacious  mind  to  trace  the 
signs  of  a  sensuous  and  pleasure-loving  destiny  in  that 
nature.  Let  me  explain  my  thought  more  clearly. 
There  were  two  women  in  Fedora,  separated,  it  may  be, 
like  the  head  from  the  body.  The  head  alone  seemed 
amorous  ;  before  looking  at  a  man  she  appeared  to  make 
ready  her  glance,  as  if  some  mysterious,  inexplicable 
thought  were  passing  through  her  mind,  and  causing  a 
tumult  in  those  brilliant  eyes.  Either  my  science  was 
imperfect  and  I  had  still  many  secrets  to  discover  in 
the  moral  world,  or  else  the  countess  did  really  possess 
a  noble  soul,  whose  feelings  and  emanations  gave  to 
her  countenance  the  charm  which  subjugates  and  fas- 
cinates, the  charm  whose  power  is  a  moral  one,  and  all 


The  Magic  Skin. 


129 


the  greater  because  it  harmonizes  with  the  sympathies 
of  desire.  I  left  the  house  bewitched  and  captivated  by 
Fedora,  intoxicated  with  her  luxury,  thrilled  in  every 
noble,  vicious,  good,  and  evil  fibre  of  my  heart.  As  I 
felt  this  life,  this  emotion,  this  exaltation  within  me,  I 
fancied  I  understood  the  attraction  which  drew  about 
her  artists,  diplomatists,  statesmen,  or  brokers  lined 
with  metal  like  their  desks  ;  doubtless  they  came  to 
find  in  her  presence  the  same  delirious  emotion  which 
made  my  whole  being  vibrate  within  me,  lashed  my 
blood  through  every  vein,  exasperated  each  nerve,  and 
quivered  in  my  brain.  She  belonged  to  none  that  she 
might  retain  them  all.  A  coquette  is  a  woman  who 
does  not  love.  6  It  may  be,'  I  said  to  Rastignac,  '  that 
she  was  married,  or  sold  to  some  old  man,  and  that  the 
remembrance  of  her  first  marriage  has  given  her  a  dis- 
gust for  love.' 

"  I  returned  on  foot  from  the  faubourg  Saint-Honoré 
where  Fedora  lived.  Nearly  the  whole  of  Paris  lay 
between  her  house  and  the  rue  des  Cordiers  ;  the  way 
seemed  short,  and  yet  the  night  was  cold.  To  under- 
take the  conquest  of  Fedora  in  the  depth  of  winter, 
and  a  severe  winter,  with  only  thirty  francs  in  the 
world,  and  the  distance  between  us  so  great,  now 
seems  madness.  None  but  a  poor  young  man  can 
know  what  such  a  passion  costs,  in  carriages,  gloves, 
clothes,  and  linen.  If  love  is  kept  platonic  a  trifle  too 
long  it  becomes  ruinous.  There  is  many  a  Lauzun  in 
the  Law  School  who  can  never  aim  at  a  love  embowered 
on  a  first  floor.  And  how  could  I,  weak,  delicate,  ill- 
clothed,  pale,  and  emaciated,  presume  to  enter  the  lists 
with  elegant  young  men  faultlessly  attired,  curled  and 

9 


130 


The  Magic  Shin. 


cravatted  better  than  the  dandies  of  the  Croatian 
Horse,  driving  their  own  tilbur}Ts,  and  cloaked  with 
insolence?  'Bah,  Fedora  or  death!'  I  cried  to  my- 
self as  I  crossed  a  bridge,  4  Fedora  !  she  is  fortune.' 
The  beautiful  Gothic  boudoir,  and  the  salon  of  Louis 
XIV.  came  back  before  my  eyes  ;  I  saw  the  countess 
in  her  snow-white  robe  with  its  wide  and  graceful 
sleeves,  her  enticing  attitudes,  her  tempting  figure. 
When  I  reached  my  cold,  bare,  ill-kept  attic  room,  I 
was  still  environed  with  a  sense  of  Fedora's  luxury. 
The  contrast  was  an  evil  counsellor  ;  many  a  crime 
dates  from  such  a  moment.  Trembling  with  rage,  I 
cursed  my  decent  and  honest  poverty,  my  fruitful  garret 
where  so  many  thoughts  had  sprung  into  existence.  I 
called  on  God,  on  the  devil,  on  social  order,  on  my 
father,  and  the  whole  universe  to  answer  for  my  fate 
and  my  unhappiness  ;  I  went  hungry  to  bed,  mutter- 
ing ludicrous  imprecations,  but  fully  resolved  to  win 
Fedora.  That  woman's  heart  was  the  last  ticket  in 
my  fortune's  lottery. 

4  '  I  will  spare  you  an  account  of  my  earlier  visits  to 
the  countess,  and  come  at  once  to  the  pith  of  my  story. 
While  endeavoring  to  reach  the  woman's  soul  I  tried  to 
win  her  mind,  and  turn  her  vanity  in  my  favor.  To 
make  her  love  secure,  I  gave  her  many  reasons  to  love 
herself.  I  never  left  her  in  a  state  of  indifference. 
Women  want  emotions  at  any  price,  and  I  gave  them 
to  her  ;  I  preferred  to  have  her  angry  with  me  rather 
than  indifferent.  Though  at  first,  supported  by  a  firm 
will,  and  the  desire  to  make  mvself  beloved,  I  gained 
a  certain  ascendency  over  her,  my  passion  soon  in- 
creased, and  I  was  no  longer  master  of  myself  ;  I  fell 


The  Magic  Skin.  131 


among  true  emotions,  I  lost  my  self-control,  and  be- 
came desperately  in  love.  I  do  not  know  exactly  what 
it  is  that  we  call  in  poetry,  or  in  conversation,  love  ; 
but  the  sentiment  that  suddenly  developed  itself  in  my 
dual  nature  I  never  have  seen  represented,  either  in 
the  stilted  and  rhetorical  phraseolog}T  of  Jean-Jacques 
(whose  very  room  I  might  then  be  occupying),  or  in  the 
cold  imaginings  of  our  two  literary  centuries,  nor  yet 
in  the  paintings  of  Italy.  The  view  of  the  Lake  of 
Bienne,  a  few  melodies  of  Rossini,  Murillo's  Madonna, 
now  in  possession  of  Marshal  Soult,  the  letters  of  La 
Lescombat,  certain  scattered  words  in  collections  of 
social  anecdotes,  above  all,  the  prayers  of  ecstatics, 
and  a  few  passages  in  our  fabliaux,  are  alone  able  to 
transport  me  into  the  divine  regions  of  my  first  love. 
Nothing  in  human  language,  no  translation  of  human 
thought  by  means  of  paintings,  statues,  words,  or 
sounds,  can  give  the  vigor,  the  truth,  the  complete- 
ness, the  suddenness  of  emotion  in  the  soul.  He  who 
talks  of  art,  talks  of  falsehood, — art  is  inadequate. 
Love  passes  through  an  infinite  number  of  transfor- 
mations before  it  mingles  forever  with  our  life,  and 
dyes  it  everlastingly  with  the  color  of  its  flame.  The 
secret  of  this  imperceptible  infusion  escapes  the  analy- 
sis of  artist  or  writer.  True  passion  is  expressed  in 
cries  and  moans  that  are  wearisome  to  a  cool  man. 
We  must  love  sincerely  before  we  can  share  in  the  sav- 
age roar  of  Lovelace  as  we  read  'Clarissa  Harlowe.' 
Love  is  a  fresh  spring,  bubbling  up  among  its  water- 
cresses,  a  brook  purling  through  flowery  meads,  and 
over  pebbles,  flowing,  eddying,  changing  its  nature,  and 
its  aspect  at  every  influx,  and  flinging  itself  at  last  into 


132 


The  Magic  Skin. 


an  immeasurable  ocean  which  seems  to  half-formed 
spirits  only  a  monotonous  level,  but  in  whose  depths 
great  souls  are  sunk  in  endless  contemplation. 

6  £  How  shall  I  dare  describe  these  transitory  shades 
of  feeling,  these  nothings  which  are  so  infinite,  these 
words  whose  accents  exhaust  all  treasures  of  language, 
these  looks  more  pregnant  than  the  richest  poem  ? 
Before  each  mystic  scene  by  which  insensibly  we  come 
to  love  a  woman,  there  opens  an  abyss  which  engulfs 
all  human  poetry.  Ah  !  how  can  we  reproduce  in 
empty  words,  like  explanatory  notes,  these  keen, 
mysterious  agitations  of  the  soul,  when  language  fails 
us  to  explain  the  visible  mystery  of  beauty?  What 
allurements  !  What  hours  did  I  not  spend  plunged  in 
the  ineffable  ecstasy  of  seeing  her!  Happy  —  with 
what?  I  know  not.  If  at  times  her  face  was  bathed 
in  light,  some  phenomenon  took  place  upon  it  which 
made  it  luminous  ;  the  almost  imperceptible  down 
upon  the  fine  and  delicate  skin  softly  defined  its 
outlines  with  the  charm  which  we  admire  in  distant 
horizons,  when  they  are  hazy  in  the  sunlight.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  daylight  caressed  her  as  it  blended 
with  her,  or  that  a  light  emanated  from  her  radiant 
face  more  brilliant  than  light  itself;  then  some 
shadow  passing  across  that  shining  countenance  pro- 
duced a  color  which  varied  its  expression  with  the 
changing  tints.  Often  a  thought  seemed  to  stand  forth 
upon  her  brow  ;  her  eye  appeared  to  blush,  the  lids 
quivered,  her  features  gently  undulated,  stirred  by  a 
smile  ;  the  speaking  coral  of  her  lips  grew  animated, 
parted,  then  closed  again  ;  certain  reflections  of  her 
hair  which  I  cannot  describe  threw  a  brown  tone  upon 


The  Magic  Skin. 


133 


her  forehead  ;  and  by  these  changes  Fedora  spoke. 
Each  shade  of  beauty  gave  new  feasts  to  my  eyes, 
revealed  graces  still  unknown  to  my  heart.  I  sought 
to  read  a  feeling,  a  hope,  in  the  phases  of  her  counte- 
nance. These  mute  communications  travelled  from 
soul  to  soul  like  sound  through  an  echo,  and  gave  me 
passing  joys  which  left  undying  impressions.  Her 
voice  caused  me  delirious  excitements  which  I  con- 
trolled with  difficulty.  Imitating  some  prince  of 
Lorraine,  — I  forget  who  he  was,  — I  could  have  taken 
a  burning  coal  in  my  hand  and  never  felt  it,  had  she 
passed  her  delicate  fingers  through  my  hair.  My  love 
was  no  longer  admiration  or  desire,  it  was  a  spell,  a 
fatality.  Often  beneath  nry  garret  roof  I  saw  Fedora, 
indistinctly,  in  her  own  room  ;  dreamily  I  shared  her 
life.  If  she  were  suffering,  I  suffered,  and  on  the 
morrow  I  said  to  her,  'You  were  ill  last  night ?' 
Again  and  suddenly,  like  a  flash  of  light,  she  would 
strike  the  pen  from  my  hand,  and  scare  away  Science 
and  study,  till  they  fled  disconsolate  ;  she  forced  me  to 
think  of  nothing  but  the  attitude  in  which  I  last  had 
seen  her  ;  sometimes  I  sought  her  myself  in  the  world 
of  apparitions,  saluting  her  as  Hope,  praying  that  she 
would  speak  to  me  with  her  silvery  voice,  and  then  I 
awoke  to  weep. 

"  One  day  after  promising  to  go  with  me  to  the  theatre 
she  suddenly  refused  to  keep  her  promise,  and  begged 
me  not  to  visit  her  that  evening.  In  despair  at  a  disap- 
pointment which  had  cost  me  a  day's  labor  and,  if  I  must 
own  it,  my  last  penny,  I  went  to  the  theatre  where  she 
was  to  have  been,  wishing  to  see  the  play  she  had  de- 
sired to  see.    I  had  scarcely  taken  my  seat  before  an 


134 


The  Magic  Skin. 


electric  shock  fell  on  my  heart.  A  voice  said  to  me, 
'  She  is  here.'  I  turned  and  saw  Fedora  sitting  at  the 
back  of  her  box,  withdrawn  into  the  shadow.  My  eyes 
were  not  misled,  the}'  found  her  with  instant  keenness  ; 
nry  soul  flew  to  her  as  an  insect  flies  to  its  flower.  How 
came  my  senses  to  have  received  this  intimation  ?  Such 
things  seem  surprising  to  superficial  minds,  but  these 
effects  of  our  internal  being  are  really  as  simple  as  the 
ordinary  phenomena  of  our  external  life  ;  and  therefore 
I  was  not  astonished,  but  angry.  My  researches  into 
the  nature  of  moral  force,  so  little  understood,  made  me 
notice  various  living  proofs  of  my  theory  in  my  own 
passion.  This  union  of  scholar  and  lover,  a  positive 
idolatry  with  scientific  passion,  was  certainly  a  strange 
thing.  Science  was  often  gratified  by  some  circumstance 
which  led  the  lover  to  despair,  and  then,  when  Science 
was  about  to  prevail,  the  lover  drove  it  far  away  from 
him  and  recovered  happiness. 

"  Fedora  saw  me  and  grew  serious  ;  I  annoyed  her. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  act  I  went  to  her  box.  She  was 
alone  and  I  remained.  Though  we  had  never  spoken 
of  love  I  foresaw  an  explanation.  I  had  never  told  her 
m}'  secret,  yet  a  species  of  expectancy  existed  between 
us  ;  she  told  me  all  her  plans  of  amusement,  and  asked 
me  every  evening  with  friendly  anxiety  whether  I  should 
be  there  on  the  morrow  ;  she  questioned  me  with  a  glance 
when  she  said  a  witty  thing,  as  if  to  show  that  she  cared 
to  please  me  exclusively  ;  if  I  were  aloof  or  sulky  she 
became  caressing  ;  if  she  were  vexed  she  allowed  me 
the  right  to  question  her  ;  if,  b}r  chance,  I  were  guilty 
of  some  fault  she  made  me  entreat  her  long  before 
she  pardoned  me.    These  quarrels,  in  which  we  both 


The  Magic  Skin. 


135 


found  pleasure,  were  those  of  love.  She  displayed  such 
grace  and  coquetry,  that  to  me  they  were  full  of  happi- 
ness. But  at  the  moment  of  our  present  meeting  such 
intimacy  seemed  suddenly  suspended,  and  we  faced  each 
other  almost  as  strangers.  The  countess  was  icy  ;  as 
for  me,  I  foresaw  disaster. 

'"Come  home  with  me,'  she  said,  when  the  play 
ended. 

"  When  we  left  the  theatre  the  weather  had  changed  ; 
it  was  raining  and  snowing.  Fedora's  carriage  could 
not  be  brought  up  to  the  door  of  the  theatre.  Seeing  a 
well-dressed  woman  obliged  to  cross  the  boulevard,  a 
street-porter  held  an  umbrella  over  her  head,  and  asked 
for  his  fee  when  we  were  seated  in  the  carriage.  I  had 
nothing  ;  I  would  have  sold  ten  years  of  my  life  for  ten 
sous  at  that  moment.  All  that  makes  man  and  his 
vanity  was  crushed  down  in  me  by  that  infernal  momen- 
tary pain.  My  answer,  6 1  have  no  money  with  me, 
my  good  fellow,'  was  said  in  a  hard  tone  that  came  from 
my  mortified  pride, —  said  by  me,  the  brother  of  that  man, 
by  me  who  knew  so  well  the  sorrows  of  povert}T,  though 
once  I  might  have  given  away  my  hundreds  and  thou- 
sands. The  footman  pushed  aside  the  porter,  and  the 
horses  started. 

"  On  the  way  home  Fedora  either  was  or  pretended  to 
be  preoccupied,  answering  m}^  questions  by  disdainful 
monosyllables.  I  kept  silence.  It  was  a  dreadful  mo- 
ment. When  we  reached  the  salon  she  sat  down  beside 
the  fireplace.  After  the  footman  had  made  up  the  fire 
and  retired  from  the  room,  she  turned  to  me  with  an 
indefinable  air  and  said  with  a  species  of  solemnity  : 

14  '  Since  my  return  to  France,  my  wealth  has  tempted 


136 


The  Magie  Skin. 


a  number  of  young  men.  I  have  received  declarations 
of  love  which  might  well  gratify  my  pride  ;  I  have  met 
men  whose  attachment  was  so  deep  and  sincere  that 
they  would  have  married  me  had  I  been  the  same  poor 
girl  I  formerly  was.  In  short,  I  wish  you  to  know, 
Monsieur  de  Valentin,  that  wealth  and  titles  have  been 
offered  to  me  ;  and  I  also  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
never  again  received  the  persons  who  were  so  ill-advised 
as  to  speak  to  me  of  love.  If  my  affection  for  you  were 
trifling  I  would  not  give  you  this  warning,  in  which  there 
is  more  friendship  than  pride.  A  woman  lays  herself 
open  to  a  rebuff  if,  supposing  herself  loved,  she  refuses 
unasked  a  feeling  that  must  flatter  her.  I  know  the 
scenes  of  Arsinoë  and  Araminta.  and  I  have  considered 
the  answers  which  I  might  receive  under  similar  circum- 
stances. But  I  hope  that  I  shall  not  be  so  unfairly 
judged  to-day  by  a  man  of  superior  discernment  when  I 
thus  frankly  show  him  my  heart.' 

"  She  spoke  with  the  coolness  of  a  lawyer  or  notary 
explaining  a  deed.  The  clear,  seductive  ring  of  her 
voice  betrayed  not  the  slightest  emotion  ;  her  face  and 
her  bearing,  always  dignified  and  proper,  now  seemed 
to  have  put  on  a  diplomatic  coldness  and  reserve.  She 
had,  no  doubt,  thought  over  her  words  and  mapped  out 
the  scene.  Oh  !  my  dear  friend,  when  certain  women 
find  pleasure  in  rending  our  hearts,  when  the}7  know 
the}T  are  plunging  a  dagger  into  our  souls  and  turning 
it  in  the  wound,  they  are  adorable  ;  such  women  either 
love,  or  wish  to  be  loved.  Some  day  they  will  recom- 
pense us  for  our  sufferings,  as  God,  they  sa}',  will  re- 
ward our  good  deeds  ;  they  will  return  us  pleasures  an 
hundredfold  for  every  hurt  whose  anguish  they  are 


The  Magic  Skin. 


137 


able  to  perceive  ;  their  cruelty  is  full  of  passion.  But 
to  be  tortured  by  a  woman  who  slaughters  us  with  in- 
difference, is  an  untold  agony.  At  this  moment  Fedora 
blindly  trod  under  foot  every  hope  that  was  in  me,  broke 
my  life,  destroyed  my  future,  with  the  cold  carelessness 
and  innocent  cruelty  of  a  child  who  tears  the  wings  of  a 
butterfly  for  curiosity. 

44  4  Later,'  she  continued,  4 1  feel  sure  that  you  will 
understand  the  solid  affection  which  I  offer  to  my  friends. 
To  them  I  am  always,  as  you  will  find,  kind  and  devoted. 
I  could  give  my  life  for  them,  but  you  would  despise  me 
if  I  submitted  to  a  love  I  do  not  share.  I  will  say  no 
more.  You  are  the  only  man  to  whom  I  have  ever  said 
these  last  words.' 

44  At  first  I  could  not  answer  her,  speech  failed  me.  I 
could  scarcely  master  the  tempest  that  rose  within  me  ; 
but  presently  I  drove  back  my  feelings  and  said  with  a 
smile  :  — 

4  4  4  If  I  say  that  I  love  you,  you  will  banish  me  ;  if 
I  show  indifference,  you  will  punish  me.  Priests  and 
women  never  wholly  unfrock  themselves.  But,  ma- 
dame,  silence  is  non-committal  ;  you  will  permit  me, 
therefore,  to  remain  silent.  The  fact  that  you  have 
given  me  this  sisterly  warning  shows  that  you  feared 
to  lose  me,  and  that  must  needs  gratify  my  pride. 
But  let  us  lay  aside  personalities.  You  are  perhaps 
the  only  woman  with  whom  I  could  discuss  from  a 
philosophical  point  of  view  these  resolutions  of  yours, 
which  are  so  contrary  to  the  laws  of  nature.  Compar- 
ing you  with  all  others  of  your  kind,  you  are  a  phenom- 
enon. Well,  then,  let  us  try,  in  good  faith,  to  discover 
the  cause  of  this  singular  physiological  anomaly.  Can 


138 


The  Magic  Skin. 


there  be  in  you,  as  in  other  women  who  are  full  of 
self-esteem  and  amorous  of  their  own  perfections,  a 
sentiment  of  refined  selfishness  which  leads  you  to 
look  with  horror  on  the  thought  of  belonging  to  any 
man,  of  abdicating  your  will  and  being  subjected  to  a 
conventional  superiority  which  you  despise  ?  If  that  be 
so,  you  seem  to  me  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Perhaps 
you  were  maltreated  in  your  earliest  love  ?  Or,  it  may 
be  that  the  value  you  ,naturally  attach  to  your  exquisite 
figure  makes  you  dread  the  results  of  maternity  ;  that 
indeed  may  be  your  secret  reason  for  refusing  to  be 
loved.  Or  have  you  another  still  more  secret,  —  some 
imperfection,  that  keeps  you  virtuous?  Do  not  be 
angry  ;  I  am  merely  discussing,  studying  ;  I  am  a 
thousand  leagues  away  from  love.  Nature,  which 
makes  persons  blind  from  their  birth,  can  very  well 
create  women  who  are  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind  to  love. 
You  are  indeed  a  valuable  subject  for  medical  obser- 
vation—  you  do  not  know  how  valuable.  You  may 
well  have  a  legitimate  disgust  for  men  ;  I  approve  of 
it, — they  seem  to  me,  one  and  all,  ugly  and  odious. 
But  you  are  right,'  I  added,  as  I  felt  the  swelling  of 
my  heart.  '  Of  course  you  despise  us  ;  where  is  the 
man  who  is  worthy  of  you  ?  ' 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  any  more  of  the  sarcasms  I 
poured  out  upon  her,  laughing.  The  bitterest  word, 
the  sharpest  irony  drew  no  movement  or  gesture  of 
annoyance  from  her.  She  listened  with  the  usual 
smile  upon  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes,  —  that  smile  which 
she  wore  as  a  garment,  always  the  same,  to  friends,  to 
mere  acquaintances,  to  strangers. 

"  6  Am  I  not  amiable  to  let  you  put  me  on  the  table 


The  Magic  Skin. 


139 


of  a  dissecting-room?'  she  said,  seizing  a  moment 
when  I  was  silent.  4  You  see,'  she  continued,  laughing, 
4 1  have  no  foolish  susceptibilities  in  friendship.  Many 
women  would  punish  your  impertinence  by  shutting 
their  doors  against  you/ 

444  You  can  banish  me  without  being  asked  to  give 
a  reason  for  your  severity.'  As  I  said  the  words  I  felt 
that  I  might  kill  her  if  she  dismissed  me. 

"  '  You  are  absurd,'  she  said,  laughing. 

44  4  Have  you  ever  reflected,'  I  continued,  4  upon  the 
effects  of  a  violent  love?  It  has  often  happened  that 
a  man  driven  to  despair  has  murdered  his  mistress.' 

44  '  Well,'  she  answered,  coldly,  4  it  is  better  to  die 
than  to  live  unhappy.  A  man  of  such  vehement  pas- 
sions would  certainly  abandon  his  wife,  and  leave 
her  with  the  wolf  at  the  door,  after  squandering  her 
fortune.' 

44  This  arithmetic  dumbfounded  me.  I  saw  the  ab}^ss 
that  lay  between  that  woman  and  me.  We  could  never 
comprehend  each  other. 

4  4  4  Adieu,'  I  said,  coldly. 

4  4  4  Adieu,'  she  answered,  with  a  friendly  inclination 
of  her  head,  4  until  to-morrow.' 

44 1  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment,  flinging 
toward  her,  like  a  projectile,  all  the  love  which  I  now 
cast  from  me.  She  was  standing  erect,  and  replied  to 
my  look  with  a  commonplace  smile,  the  odious  smile 
of  a  marble  statue,  seeming  to  express  love,  but  cold 
as  stone. 

44  Ah!  Emile,  conceive  the  sufferings  in  which  I  re- 
turned home,  through  the  sleet  and  rain,  walking  for 
three  miles  along  the  icy,  slippery  quays,  having  lost 


140 


The  Magic  Skin. 


all  !  Oh,  to  feel  that  she  never  so  much  as  knew  of 
my  misery  or  my  poverty  ;  she  thought  me,  like  herself, 
rich,  and  driving  in  a  carriage.  What  ruin,  what 
deception  !  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  money,  all 
the  fortunes  of  my  soul  were  lost.  I  walked,  I  knew 
not  how  or  where.  Discussing  with  myself  the  words 
of  that  strange  conversation.  I  lost  myself  so  utterly  in 
the  effort  to  explain  them  that  I  ended  by  doubting 
even  the  nominal  value  of  ideas  and  words.  But  still 
I  loved,  —  I  loved  that  cold  woman,  whose  heart 
desired  to  be  won  every  night,  and  on  the  morrow, 
effacing  the  promises  of  the  day  before,  expected  to 
be  wooed  again. 

"As  I  turned  through  the  wickets  at  the  Institute, 
a  feverish  ague  seized  me.  I  remembered  that  I  was 
fasting.  I  had  no  money,  not  a  copper  coin.  To  add 
to  my  misfortunes,  the  rain  had  destroyed  my  hat. 
How  could  I  approach  an  elegant  woman,  and  enter 
a  salon  with  a  hat  that  was  no  longer  presentable? 
Thanks  to  my  extreme  care,  —  all  the  while  cursing 
a  fashion  which  condemns  us  to  exhibit  the  nap  of  a 
hat  by  carrying  it  constantly  in  our  hands,  —  I  had 
kept  mine  hitherto  in  fair  condition.  Without  looking 
either  brand-new  or  amorphously  old.  with  a  nap  that 
was  neither  worn  nor  immaculate,  it  could  very  well 
pass  for  the  hat  of  a  careful  man  ;  but  now  its  social 
existence  was  at  an  end:  it  was  soaked,  sodden,  done 
for,  an  actual  rag,  —  fit  representative  of  its  owner. 
For  lack  of  thirty  sous  to  hire  a  cab,  I  had  lost  my 
pains-taking  elegance.  Ah  !  how  many  sacrifices, 
disregarded  sacrifices,  had  I  not  made  to  Fedora  during 
the  last  three  months.    I  had  often  spent  the  money 


The  Magic  Skin. 


141 


I  needed  for  my  week's  bread,  to  go  and  see  her  for 
a  single  hour.  To  leave  my  work  and  go  without  food 
was  nothing  ;  but  to  cross  the  streets  of  Paris  and 
avoid  being  splashed,  to  run  and  escape  rain,  and  then 
to  enter  her  presence  as  well-dressed  and  composed  as 
the  dandies  who  surrounded  her,  —  ah  !  to  a  poet,  a 
lover  and  a  man  absorbed  in  thought,  the  task  was 
one  of  unspeakable  difficulty.  My  happiness,  my  love, 
depended  on  the  spotless  condition  of  my  only  white 
waistcoat  !  I  must  renounce  the  sight  of  her  if  I  were 
muddy,  or  the  rain  had  overtaken  me.  Not  to  have  five 
sous  so  that  the  street  shoe-black  might  remove  some 
trifling  spot  of  mud,  was  banishment  from  her  presence. 

"  My  passion  was  increased  by  these  petty  tortures, 
which  were,  however,  enormous  to  an  irritable  man. 
A  poor  lover  is  called  upon  for  sacrifices  which  he 
cannot  even  speak  of  to  a  woman  bred  in  luxury  and 
elegance  ;  such  women  see  life  through  a  prism  which 
tints  the  world  of  men  and  things  with  golden  light. 
Optimist  through  selfishness,  cruel  by  the  laws  of  good 
manners,  these  women  excuse  themselves  from  reflect- 
ing on  the  character  of  their  pleasures,  and  find  abso- 
lution for  their  indifference  to  the  misery  of  others  in 
the  rush  of  their  enjoyments.  To  them  a  penny  is 
never  a  million,  but  the  millions  are  pennies.  If  a  poor 
love  must  win  its  way  with  mighty  sacrifices,  it  must 
also  cover  them  delicately  with  a  veil,  and  bury  them  in 
silence  ;  but  the  rich  man,  prodigal  of  money  and  of 
time,  profits  by  the  woiidliness  of  public  opinion  which 
throws  a  glamour  over  the  extravagances  of  his  amo- 
rous devotion.  For  him  silence  may  have  a  voice,  and 
the  veil  a  grace  ;  but  my  horrible  poverty  caused  me 


142 


The  Magic  Skin. 


intolerable  sufferings,  and  yet  forbade  that  I  should  let 
it  say  for  me,  ' 1  love,  I  die,  behold  my  sacrifice!' 
But,  after  all,  was  it  sacrifice?  was  I  not  amply  re- 
warded by  the  happiness  I  felt  in  immolating  myself 
for  her?  The  countess  had  given  the  utmost  value, 
and  brought  excessive  enjoyment  to  the  smallest  inci- 
dents of  my  life.  Formerly,  in  the  matter  of  dress,  I 
had  been  careless  and  indifferent.  I  now  respected  my 
clothes  as  if  they  were  another  self.  Between  a  wound 
on  my  own  body  and  a  rent  in  my  coat  I  should  not 
have  hesitated  a  moment. 

Emile,  3-011  must  surely  now  perceive  my  situation, 
and  understand  the  rage  of  thoughts,  of  ever-increasing 
frenzy  that  hurried  me  along  from  that  fatal  interview. 
A  sort  of  infernal  joy  possessed  me  as  I  felt  nn^self  at 
the  apex  of  all  misfortunes.  I  tried  to  fane}'  it  might 
be  a  culminating  point,  and  to  think  it  of  good  augury  ; 
but  alas  !  evil  has  resources  without  end. 

u  The  door  of  my  inn  was  open.  I  noticed  a  light 
coming  through  the  heart-shaped  hole  cut  in  the  blinds. 
Pauline  and  her  mother  were  sitting  up  for  me.  I 
heard  my  name,  and  paused  a  moment  to  listen. 

"  1  Raphael  is  much  nicer  than  the  student  in  number 
seven,'  Pauline  was  saying.  '  His  blond  hair  is  such 
a  pretty  color  !  Don't  you  think  there  is  something  in 
his  voice  —  I  can't  tell  what  —  that  stirs  one's  heart  ? 
And  then,  though  he  has  a  rather  haughty  air,  he  is  so 
good,  and  his  manners  are  so  distinguished.  I  call 
him  truly  handsome,  and  I  should  think  all  women 
would  fall  in  love  with  him.' 

"  6  You  speak  as  if  you  loved  him  yourself,'  said 
Madame  Gaudin. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


143 


"  6  Oh,  I  love  him  as  a  brother!'  cried  Pauline, 
laughing.  '  I  should  be  shamefully  ungrateful  if  I  did 
not.  Has  n't  he  taught  me  music,  drawing,  grammar, 
—  in  fact,  all  I  know.  You  don't  pay  much  attention 
to  my  progress,  mamma  ;  but  I  am  really  getting  so 
well  educated  that  before  long  I  can  give  lessons  my- 
self, and  then  we  can  keep  a  servant.' 

" 1  drew  back  softly,  made  a  noise  at  the  door,  and 
then  entered  the  room  to  take  my  lamp,  which  Pauline 
hastened  to  light.  The  poor  child  had  poured  a  balm 
upon  my  wounds.  Her  simple  praise  gave  me  some 
trifling  courage.  I  needed  to  believe  in  myself  once 
more,  and  to  get  an  impartial  opinion  on  the  real  value 
of  my  merits.  My  hopes,  thus  revived,  reflected  pos- 
sibly on  the  way  I  saw  things.  Perhaps,  moreover,  I 
had  never  seriously  noticed  the  scene  daily  offered  to 
my  eyes  by  these  two  women  at -work  in  their  chamber  ; 
but  now  I  enjoyed  it  as  a  living  and  delightful  picture 
of  the  modest  lives  so  faithfully  reproduced  by  Flemish 
painters.  The  mother,  seated  in  the  chimney-corner, 
was  knitting  stockings,  a  kindly  smile  resting  on  her 
lips.  Pauline  was  painting  screens  ;  her  colors  and 
brushes,  spread  on  a  little  table,  spoke  to  the  eye 
with  charming  effect.  She  herself  had  risen  to  get 
my  lamp,  whose  full  light  now  fell  upon  her  face.  A 
man  must  indeed  have  been  subjugated  by  a  blinding 
passion  had  he  failed  to  admire  the  rosy,  transparent 
fingers,  the  ideal  beauty  of  her  head,  and  her  maidenly 
attitude.  Night-time  and  silence  both  lent  their  charm 
to  this  scene  of  quiet  labor,  this  tranquil  fireside. 
Such  labor,  steadily  and  cheerfully  maintained,  told  of 
Christian  resignation  drawn  from  the  highest  emotions. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


An  indefinable  harmony  existed  between  these  women 
and  the  things  about  them.  Fedoras  luxuiy  was  hard  ; 
it  awakened  evil  thoughts  in  my  mind,  while  this  hum- 
ble poverty  and  cheerful  goodness  refreshed  my  spirit. 
It  may  have  been  that  I  was  humbled  in  the  presence 
of  luxury  ;  while  beside  these  two  women  in  their  brown 
room,  where  life,  simplified  to  nature,  seemed  to  find 
its  resting-place  in  the  emotions  of  the  heart,  I  was, 
perhaps,  reconciled  with  myself  through  the  sense  of 
exercising  that  protection  of  my  sex  which  man  is  so 
eager  to  have  acknowledged.  As  I  went  up  to  Pauline 
she  looked  at  me  with  an  almost  motherly  expression, 
crying  out,  as,  with  trembling  hands,  she  hastily  placed 
the  lamp  upon  the  table  :  — 

'  '  4  Heavens  !  how  pale  you  are  !  Ah,  he  is  wet 
through  !  Let  my  mother  dry  your  clothes.  Monsieur 
Kaphael,'  she  added  after  a  momentary  pause,  'you 
are  fond  of  milk  ;  we  have  some  nice  cream  to-night,  — 
won't  you  taste  it?  '  So  saying,  she  sprang  like  a  little 
cat  to  a  china  bowl  full  of  milk,  which  she  held  up  to 
my  lips  so  prettily  that  I  hesitated. 

u  '  You  can't  refuse  me?'  she  said  in  an  altered 
voice. 

"  Our  two  prides  understood  each  other.  Pauline 
grieved  for  her  poverty,  and  reproached  me  for  my 
haughtiness.  I  was  greatly  touched.  The  cream  was 
doubtless  intended  for  their  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing, but  nevertheless  I  accepted  it.  The  poor  girl  tried 
to  hide  her  pleasure,  but  it  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

"  4 1  needed  it,'  I  said  to  her,  sitting  down.  A 
pained  look  crossed  her  face.  '  Do  you  remember, 
Pauline,  that  passage  in  Bossuet,  where  he  depicts  God 


The  Magic  Skin. 


145 


as  rewarding  a  cup  of  cold  water  more  richly  than  a 
victory  ?  ' 

"  6  Yes,'  she  said,  and  her  bosom  throbbed  like  a 
bird  in  the  hands  of  a  child. 

"  '  Well,  as  we  must  soon  part/  I  continued,  speak- 
ing unsteadily,  c  let  me  show  you  my  gratitude  for  all 
the  kindness  you  and  your  mother  have  bestowed  upon 
me.' 

"  i  Oh,  don't  let  us  reckon  such  things  !  *  she  said, 
laughing;  but  her  laugh  hid  an  emotion  that  pained 
me. 

"  6  My  piano,'  I  continued  without  seeming  to  hear 
her  words,  '  is  one  of  Erard's  best  instruments.  I  want 
you  to  accept  it.  You  can  do  so  without  scruple,  for  I 
could  not  take  it  with  me  on  the  journey  I  am  about  to 
undertake.' 

4  6  The  tone  in  which  I  spoke  may  have  enlightened 
them,  for  the  two  women  seemed  to  understand  m}T 
meaning.  They  looked  at  me  with  terrified  curiosity. 
The  affection  for  which  I  had  vainly  searched  in  the 
cold  regions  of  the  great  world  was  here,  beside  me, — 
genuine,  without  display,  but  earnest,  and  perhaps 
lasting. 

"  6  You  must  not  take  life  too  hard,'  said  the  mother. 
'  Remain  here  with  us.  My  husband  is  certainly  on 
his  way  home.  To-night  I  read  the  gospel  of  Saint 
John,  while  Pauline  held  our  key  suspended  on  a  Bible  ; 
and  the  key  turned.  That  is  a  sure  sign  that  Gaudin 
is  well  and  prospering.  Pauline  tried  it  for  you  and 
for  the  young  man  in  number  seven  ;  your  key  turned 
and  the  other  did  not.  We  shall  all  be  rich  ;  Gaudin 
will  come  back  a  millionnaire  ;  I  dreamed  of  him  in 

10 


146 


The  Magic  Shin. 


a  ship  full  of  snakes  ;  fortunately,  the  waves  were 
rough,  for  that  means  gold  and  precious  stones  from 
foreign  parts.' 

u  These  friendly  and  foolish  words,  like  the  vague 
songs  of  mothers  putting  their  babes  to  sleep,  restored 
me  to  some  calmness.  The  look  and  tone  of  the  good 
woman  were  full  of  that  gentle  cordiality  which  cannot 
efface  grief,  but  still  does  soften,  soothe,  and  allay  it. 
More  perceptive  than  her  mother,  Pauline  watched  me 
anxiously  ;  her  intelligent  eyes  seemed  to  guess  my 
life  and  my  future.  I  thanked  them  both  with  an 
inclination  of  my  head,  and  then  I  left  the  room, 
fearing  to  show  my  feelings.  Once  alone  under  the 
roof,  I  took  my  grief  to  bed  with  me.  My  fatal 
imagination  invented  project  after  project,  all  base- 
less, and  prompted  me  to  impossible  resolutions. 
When  a  man  drags  himself  through  the  wreck  of  his 
fortune,  some  resources  still  remain  for  him,  but  for 
me  there  was  nothing  —  there  was  nothingness.  Ah! 
friend,  we  are  too  ready  to  blame  the  poor.  Let  us  be 
indulgent  to  the  results  of  that  worst  of  all  social  dis- 
solvents, poverty.  Where  poverty  reigns,  neither 
purity,  nor  crime,  nor  virtue,  nor  mind,  can  be 
said  to  exist.  I  was  now  without  ideas,  without 
strength,  like  a  young  girl  on  her  knees  before  a  tiger. 
A  man  without  money  and  without  a  passion  is  his 
own  master  ;  but  an  unhappy  being  who  loves  belongs 
to  himself  no  longer,  —  he  cannot  even  kill  himself. 
Love  gives  us  a  sort  of  worship  for  ourselves  ;  we 
respect  another  life  within  our  own  ;  it  then  becomes 
the  most  horrible  of  all  sufferings,  —  the  suffering  that 
has  hope  in  it,  hope  that  makes  us  willing  to  endure 


The  Magic  Skin.  147 


torture.  I  fell  asleep,  resolving  to  go  to  Rastignac  the 
next  day,  and  tell  him  of  Fedora's  strange  conduct. 

u  '  Ha,  ha  !  '  cried  Eugene,  as  he  saw  me  enter  his 
rooms  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  c  I  know  what 
brings  you  here  ;  Fedora  has  dismissed  you.  A  few 
kind  souls,  jealous  of  your  power  over  the  countess 
have  spread  the  report  of  your  marriage.  God  knows 
the  stuff  your  rivals  have  talked,  and  the  calumnies 
they  have  told  of  you.' 

"  '  That  explains  everything  !  '  T  cried. 

"  I  recollected  my  insolent  speeches  to  the  countess, 
and  felt  that  her  forbearance  had  been  sublime.  I  now 
thought  myself  a  brute  who  had  not  been  made  to 
suffer  enough,  and  I  saw  in  her  gentleness  the  patient 
charity  of  love. 

"  '  Not  so  fast/  said  the  prudent  Gascon.  c  Fedora 
has  the  natural  penetration  of  a  selfish  woman  ;  she  may 
have  taken  your  measure  at  the  time  when  3-011  thought 
only  of  her  wealth  and  luxury  ;  in  spite  of  your  caution 
she  may  then  have  read  your  mind.  She  is  so  dissim- 
ulating herself  that  she  cannot  endure  dissimulation  in 
others.  I  fear,'  he  added,  c  that  I  have  started  you  on 
a  bad  road.  In  spite  of  Fedora's  refinement  of  mind 
and  manners,  the  woman  herself  seems  to  me  as  hard 
and  imperious  as  all  other  women  who  enjoy  pleasure  by 
the  head.  Happiness  for  her  is  ease  of  life  and  social 
enjoyment  ;  as  for  sentiment  or  feeling,  they  are  merely  a 
rôle  she  likes  to  play.  She  would  make  you  very  un- 
happy ;  you  would  end  in  being  her  chief  footman  —  ' 

"  Rastignac  spoke  as  to  a  deaf  man.  I  interrupted 
his  discourse,  and  told  him,  with  apparent  gayety,  of 
my  financial  position. 


148 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  Last  night,'  he  replied,  1  a  stroke  of  ill-luck  car- 
ried off  eveiy  penny  that  I  could  command.  If  it  were 
not  for  that  commonplace  accident  I  would  share  my 
purse  with  you.  But  come  and  breakfast  at  the  café  ; 
we  will  have  some  oysters,  and  perhaps  they  '11  give 
us  good  advice.' 

"  He  dressed  himself,  and  ordered  his  tilbury;  then, 
like  two  millionnaires,  we  betook  ourselves  to  the  Café 
de  Paris,  with  the  assurance  of  those  bold  speculators 
who  live  on  imaginary  capital.  This  devil  of  a  Gascon 
literally  confounded  me  with  the  ease  of  his  manners 
and  his  imperturbable  aplomb.  Just  as  we  were  taking 
coffee  after  a  delicious  and  well-chosen  repast,  Ras- 
tignac,  who  kept  bowing  right  and  left  to  a  crowd  of 
young  men  remarkable  for  their  personal  appearance 
and  also  for  the  elegance  of  their  attire,  said  to  me  as  he 
saw  another  of  these  dandies  enter  the  room,  É  Here 's 
your  man  ;  '  then  he  signed  to  a  gentleman  well-gloved 
and  cravatted,  who  was  looking  round  him  for  a  table. 

"'That  fellow,'  whispered  Rastignac  in  my  ear, 
4  wears  the  Legion  of  honor  for  having  published  works 
he  can't  understand.  He  is  a  man  of  science,  historian, 
romance- writer,  and  journalist  ;  he  owns  quarters, 
thirds,  halves,  in  I  don't  know  how  many  stage  plays, 
and  he's  as  ignorant  as  Don  Miguel's  mule.  He  is  n't 
a  man,  he's  a  name,  a  ticket.  He  takes  very  good 
care  never  to  commit  himself  to  a  scrap  of  writing; 
he 's  shrewd  enough  to  trick  a  whole  congress.  To  ex- 
plain him  in  one  sentence,  he  is  a  mongrel  in  morals,  — 
neither  a  complete  scoundrel  nor  an  honest  man.  But 
he  fought  a  duel;  the  world  asks  nothing  more,  and 
calls  him  an  honorable  man  —    Well,  my  excellent  and 


The  Magic  Skin. 


149 


honorable  friend,  how  is  Your  Intelligence?'  said  Ras- 
tignac  to  the  new-comer,  who  now  seated  himself  at 
the  adjoining  table. 

"  4  Neither  well  nor  ill.  I  am  worn  out  with  work. 
I  have  now  in  my  hands  all  the  necessary  material  for 
some  very  curious  historical  memoirs,  and  I  don't  know 
to  whom  to  attribute  them.  It  worries  me,  for  if  I  don't 
make  haste,  memoirs  will  get  out  of  fashion.' 

u  6  Are  they  contemporaneous,  or  ancient  history,  or 
court  memoirs,  or  what?  ' 

"  4  They  are  about  the  Diamond  Necklace.' 

'"A  downright  miracle  !  '  said  Rastignac  in  my  ear, 
with  a  laugh  ;  then,  turning  again  to  the  speculator,  he 
said,  introducing  me,  '  Monsieur  de  Valentin  is  a  friend 
of  mine,  whom  I  present  to  you  as  a  future  literanr 
celebrity.  He  had  an  aunt  belonging  to  the  old  court, 
a  marchioness,  and  for  the  last  two  years  he  has  been 
working  at  a  royalist  history  of  the  Revolution  ;  '  then, 
leaning  toward  this  singular  man  of  literary  business, 
he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  6  He  is  a  man  of  talent,  but 
a  soft  fellow  who  will  do  your  memoirs  for  you  and 
give  them  his  aunt's  name  for  three  hundred  francs  a 
volume.' 

"  '  That  will  suit  me,'  said  the  other,  pulling  up  his 
cravat.    '  Waiter,  my  oysters,  quick  !  ' 

u  É  Yes,  but  you  must  give  me  twenty-five  louis  for 
my  commission,  and  pay  him  for  a  volume  in  advance,' 
said  Rastignac. 

"  *  No,  no.  I  won't  advance  more  than  a  hundred 
and  fifty  francs,  and  then  I  shall  be  more  sure  of  get- 
ting the  work  done  promptly.' 

u  Rastignac  repeated  this  mercantile  agreement  to 


150 


The  Magic  Shin. 


me  in  a  low  voice.  Then,  without  consulting  me,  he 
said  to  the  other  man,  6  That 's  a  bargain  ;  when  can 
we  see  you  again,  to  settle  the  affair?  ' 

u  6  Well,  come  and  dine  here  to-morrôw  evening  at 
seven  o'clock/ 

"  We  rose  to  leave  the  café  ;  Rastignac  threw  some 
change  to  the  waiter,  put  the  bill  in  his  pocket,  and  we 
went  out  into  the  street.  I  was  stupefied  by  the  light 
and  airy  manner  in  which  he  had  sold  my  respectable 
aunt,  the  Marquise  de  Montbauron. 

"  6  1  would  rather  embark  for  Brazil  or  go  and  teach 
algebra  to  the  Indians,  than  soil  the  name  of  my 
family  !  ' 

"  Rastignac  burst  out  laughing  :  — 

"  '  Oh  !  what  a  fool  you  are.  In  the  first  place  get 
your  hundred  and  fifty  francs  and  do  the  memoirs. 
When  they  are  done,  idiot,  you  can  refuse  to  give  the 
name  of  your  aunt.  Madame  de  Montbauron,  dead  on 
the  scaffold,  her  paniers,  her  paraphernalia,  her  beaut}T, 
her  paint,  and  her  slippers  are  worth  a  great  deal  more 
than  six  hundred  francs.  If  the  publisher  won't  pay 
you  a  proper  price  for  your  aunt,  and  all  that,  he  can 
easily  find  a  broken-down  man  of  fashion  who  lives  by 
his  wits,  or  some  smirched  countess  to  sign  the 
volumes.' 

"  6  Oh  !  '  I  cried,  4  why  did  I  ever  leave  m}r  virtuous 
garret?  —  the  world  has  a  base,  vile  side  to  it  !  ' 

"  6  Bah  !  '  said  Rastignac,  'you  are  talking  poetry 
about  a  matter  of  business.  You  are  nothing  but  a 
child.  Listen  ;  as  for  the  memoirs,  the  public  will  judge 
of  them  ;  as  to  my  literary  broker,  has  n't  he  spent  eight 
years  of  his  life  at  his  business,  and  paid  for  his  present 


The  Magic  Skin.  151 


relations  with  publishers  at  the  price  of  cruel  experience? 
By  sharing  the  profits  of  the  book  unequally  with  him, 
is  n't  your  part  in  the  affair  much  the  noblest  ?  Seventy- 
five  francs  are  more  to  you  than  a  thousand  francs  to 
him.  Come,  you  can  very  well  write  those  memoirs 
(works  of  art  if  ever  they  were  any),  when  Diderot  wrote 
six  sermons  for  a  hundred  francs.' 

44  6  It  is  a  necessity,'  I  replied  ;  4  and  I  know  I  ought 
to  be  grateful  to  you.  Seventy-five  francs  are  riches 
to  me.' 

"'More  riches  than  you  think  for,'  said  Eugene, 
laughing.  4  If  Finot  gives  me  a  commission  for  the 
affair,  of  course  you  know  it  is  yours.  Let's  go  and 
drive  in  the  bois  de  Boulogne,'  he  continued  ;  4  you 
will  meet  your  countess,  and  I  '11  show  you  the  pretty 
little  widow  I  am  going  to  marry,  —  a  charming  person, 
a  rather  fat  Alsacian.  She  reads  Kant,  Schiller,  Jean- 
Paul,  and  lots  of  Jryclraulic  books  ;  she  persists  in  asking 
for  my  opinion  on  them,  and  I 'm  obliged  to  pretend 
that  I  understand  all  that  German  sentimentality,  and 
dote  on  a  heap  of  ballads  and  things,  which  are  posi- 
tively forbidden  me  by  my  physician.  I  have  n't  yet 
broken  her  of  literary  enthusiasm.  Would  you  believe 
it?  she  cries  over  Goethe,  and  I 'm  obliged  to  cry  too, 
—  that  is,  a  little,  out  of  policy  ;  you  see,  my  dear  fellow, 
it  is  a  matter  of  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  the 
prettiest  little  foot  and  the  prettiest  little  hand  in  the 
world.  Oh  !  if  she  only  did  not  mispronounce  her 
words  with  that  horrible  German  accent  she  would  be 
an  accomplished  woman.' 

44  We  met  Fedora,  looking  brilliant  in  a  brilliant 
equipage.   The  coquettish  creature  bowed  very  cordially 


152 


The  Magic  Skin. 


and  gave  me  a  smile  which  I  thought  divine  and  full  of 
love.  Ah  !  once  more  I  was  happy,  and  thought  myself 
beloved  ;  I  had  the  wealth  and  the  treasures  of  passion  ; 
there  was  no  poverty,  no  misery  for  me  now.  Gay, 
happy,  pleased  with  everything,  I  thought  Rastignac's 
mistress  charming.  The  trees,  the  skies,  the  atmosphere, 
all  nature  seemed  to  copy  Fedora's  smile.  Returning 
by  the  Champs-Elysées  we  went  to  Rastignac's  hatter  and 
tailor.  The  Diamond  Necklace  allowed  me  to  put  my- 
self in  battle-array  for  the  struggle  before  me.  In  future, 
I  could  match  the  grace  and  elegance  of  the  young  men 
who  revolved  around  Fedora.  I  went  back  to  my  garret 
and  shut  myself  in  ;  I  sat  down  at  my  little  window, 
tranquil  apparently  while  inwardly  bidding  an  eternal 
adieu  to  the  sea  of  roofs,  living  in  the  future,  dramatiz- 
ing my  life,  discounting,  before  it  came  to  me,  love  with 
all  its  joys.  Ah  !  what  tumults  may  shake  a  solitary 
life  between  the  four  walls  of  a  garret!  The  human 
soul  is  a  fairy  ;  she  transforms  straws  into  diamonds  ; 
at  a  touch  of  her  magic  wand  enchanted  palaces  spring 
up  like  the  flowers  of  the  field  beneath  the  warm  in- 
spirations of  the  sun. 

"  On  the  morrow,  about  mid-day,  Pauline  knocked  at 
my  door  and  brought  me  —  what  do  you  suppose?  a 
letter  from  Fedora  !  The  countess  asked  me  to  take 
her  to  the  Luxembourg,  and  then  to  the  Museum  and 
the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  '  A  porter  is  waiting  for  the 
answer,'  said  Pauline,  after  a  moment's  silence.  I 
wrote  a  hasty  reply,  which  Pauline  carried  off.  Then  I 
dressed.  Just  as  I  had  finished,  and  was  looking  at 
myself  with  some  satisfaction,  a  horrible  thought  crossed 
my  mind,  —  '  Will  Fedora  drive,  or  go  on  foot  ?  what  if  it 


The  Magic  Skin. 


153 


rains  ?  will  it  be  fine  ?  '  I  did  not  own  a  copper  farthing, 
and  could  not  get  one  till  I  met  Finot  at  night.  Ah  ! 
how  often  in  such  crises  of  our  youth  does  a  poet  pay 
dear  for  the  intellectual  force  which  he  has  acquired 
through  toil  and  fasting?  A  thousand  thoughts  now 
pierced  me  like  so  many  arrows.  I  looked  at  the  sky,  the 
weather  was  doubtful.  If  th&  worst  came  to  the  worst 
I  might  take  a  carriage  by  the  day  —  but  how  could  I 
have  a  moment's  peace  of  mind  in  the  midst  of  my  hap- 
piness from  the  fear  that  I  might  not  meet  Finot  at  night  ? 
I  felt  I  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  such  anxiety  in 
presence  of  Fedora.  Though  I  knew  very  well  I  should 
find  nothing,  I  began  a  search  through  my  room  for 
imaginary  coins  ;  I  rummaged  everywhere,  even  to  the 
straw  mattress  and  my  old  boots.  A  prey  to  nervous 
excitement,  I  looked  about  the  disordered  room  with 
haggard  eyes.  Can  you  understand  the  delirium  that 
seized  upon  me  when,  opening  the  drawer  of  my  writing- 
table  for  the  seventh  time  in  a  sort  of  idle  way  which 
came  of  my  despair,  I  beheld,  caught  in  a  crack  of  the 
wood,  slyly  hiding,  but  clean,  brilliant,  and  shining  like 
a  rising  star,  a  noble  five-franc  piece  !  Not  asking  the 
cause  of  its  evasion  or  of  its  cruelty  in  escaping  me  so 
long,  I  kissed  it  as  though  it  were  a  friend  faithful  in 
trouble,  when  suddenly  my  cry  of  delight  was  echoed 
in  the  room.  I  turned  hastily  and  saw  Pauline,  who 
had  turned  pale. 

44  4  I  feared/  she  said,  1  that  you  were  ill.  The  porter 
who  brought  the  letter  '  —  she  interrupted  herself  and 
seemed  to  choke  down  her  words,  —  4  but  nry  mother 
has  paid  him,'  she  added  quickly.  Then  she  ran  away 
with  frolicsome,  childlike  grace.    Poor  little  one  !  I 


154 


The  Magic  Shin. 


wished  her  all  the  happiness  I  now  felt  ;  I  had  within 
me  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth,  and  I  would  gladly  have 
given  to  the  unfortunate  some  part  of  that  which  I 
seemed  to  have  stolen  from  them. 

6  '  We  are  nearly  always  right  in  our  presentiments  of 
evil,  — the  countess  had  sent  away  her  carriage.  With 
one  of  those  caprices  which  pretty  women  themselves 
do  not  always  understand,  she  chose  to  walk  to  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes  along  the  boulevards.  '  But  it  will 
rain,'  I  said  to  her.  She  took  pleasure  in  contradicting 
me.  It  so  happened  that  the  weather  continued  fair 
while  we  crossed  the  Luxembourg.  As  we  left  the 
gardens  a  heavy  cloud  which  I  had  been  watching  with 
anxiety  let  fall  a  few  drops,  and  I  called  a  coach. 
When  we  reached  the  boulevards  the  rain  was  over 
and  the  sky  clear.  I  was  about  to  dismiss  the  carriage 
at  the  Museum,  but  Fedora  begged  me  to  keep  it. 
What  torture  all  this  was  to  me  !  To  talk  with  her, 
repressing  the  secret  anxiety  which  was  no  doubt 
written  on  my  face  in  a  fixed  and  idiotic  smile  ;  to 
wander  through  the  shrubberies  of  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes  and  feel  her  arm  within  my  own,  — all  this,  in 
itself,  was  fantastically  strange  ;  it  was  as  though  I 
dreamed  in  open  day.  And  yet  her  movements  and 
actions,  whether  in  walking,  or  pausing,  or  conversing, 
had  nothing  truly  soft  or  loving  about  them,  notwith- 
standing their  alluring  quality.  When  I  tried  to  asso- 
ciate nryself  in  some  way  with  the  current  of  her  life, 
I  was  made  aware  of  an  inward  and  secret  sharpness  in 
her,  something  harsh,  abrupt,  even  eccentric.  Women 
without  souls  have  nothing  mellow  in  their  gestures. 
We  were  not  in  unison,  —  neither  in  our  will,  nor  even 


The  Magic  Skin. 


155 


m  our  steps.  There  are  no  words  that  clearly  explain 
this  indefinable  material  discord  between  two  human 
beings  ;  for  we  are  not  yet  accustomed  to  recognize  a 
thought  in  a  movement.  That  phenomenon  of  our  na- 
ture is  felt  instinctively,  but  so  far  it  has  never  been 
formulated  in  words. 

"  During  these  violent  paroxysms  of  my  passion," 
continued  Raphael  after  a  pause,  and  as  if  he  were 
answering  some  objection  in  his  own  mind,  "I  never 
dissected  my  sensations,  or  analyzed  my  pleasures,  or 
counted  the  beatings  of  my  heart,  as  the  miser  counts 
and  weighs  his  gold.  Oh,  no  !  experience  is  now 
throwing  its  melancholy  light  upon  those  past  events  ; 
memory  brings  back  to  me  those  scenes,  those  images, 
as  in  calm  weather  after  a  storm  the  waves  cast  frag- 
ment after  fragment  of  a  wreck  upon  the  shore. 

"  'You  can  do  me  a  great  service,'  said  the  countess, 
after  a  while,  looking  at  me  with  a  rather  confused  air. 
6  Having  confided  to  you  m}^  antipathy  to  love,  I  feel 
more  free  to  claim  a  kindness  from  you  as  a  friend. 
You  will  thus,'  she  added,  laughing,  4  have  twice  as 
much  merit  in  assisting  me,  —  don't  you  think  so? '  I 
looked  at  her  in  despair.  Untouched  by  any  feeling 
for  the  man  beside  her,  she  was  coaxing  but  not  affec- 
tionate ;  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  playing  the  part  of  a 
consummate  actress  ;  then,  suddenly,  at  a  word,  a  look, 
a  tone,  my  hopes  revived  ;  my  love,  reanimated,  shone 
in  my  eyes  ;  but  again  no  answering  sign  appeared  in 
hers,  they  sustained  the  gleams  from  mine  without  a 
change  in  their  own  clearness  ;  the}r  seemed,  like 
those  of  tigers,  to  be  lined  with  a  metal  foil.  At  that 
moment  I  hated  her. 


156  The  Magic  Skin. 


"  É  The  influence  of  the  Duc  de  Navarreins,'  she  said, 
in  a  soft,  cajoling  tone  of  voice,  '  would  be  very  useful 
to  me  with  an  all-powerful  personage  in  Russia,  whose 
intervention  is  necessary  before  I  can  obtain  justice  in 
a  matter  which  concerns  both  my  property  and  my 
position  in  society  ;  I  mean  the  recognition  of  my 
marriage  by  the  Emperor.  The  Duc  de  Navarreins 
is,  I  think,  your  cousin.  A  letter  from  him  would 
obtain  all.' 

'"Iain  yours,'  I  replied  ;  6  command  me.' 

"  '  You  are  very  kind,'  she  said,  pressing  my  hand. 
£  Come  and  dine  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  everything 
as  if  you  were  my  confessor.' 

"  So,  then,  this  discreet,  distrustful  woman,  from 
whom  no  one  had  yet  obtained  a  word  as  to  her  own 
affairs,  was  about  to  consult  me. 

"  '  Ah  !  how  thankful  I  am  now  for  the  reserve  you 
have  imposed  upon  me,'  I  cried  ;  '  though  I  would  have 
liked  some  harder  task.' 

"  She  now  welcomed  and  accepted  the  intoxication  in 
my  glance,  and  gave  herself  freely  to  my  admiration  — 
surely  she  loved  me  !  We  reached  her  house.  For- 
tunately my  five-franc  piece  was  enough  to  pay  the 
coachman.  I  passed  a  delightful  day  alone  with  her, 
in  her  own  home.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen 
her  thus.  Until  now  the  society  around  her,  her  con- 
ventional politeness,  and  her  cold  reserve,  had  always 
separated  us,  even  at  her  sumptuous  dinner-parties. 
But  now  I  was  with  her  as  if  I  lived  beneath  her  roof  ; 
she  was  mine,  so  to  speak.  My  vagrant  imagination 
burst  all  bounds,  marshalled  the  events  of  life  to  suit 
my  wishes,  and  plunged  me  into  the  delights  of  happy 


The  Magic  Skin. 


157 


love.  Fancying  myself  her  husband,  I  admired  her 
busy  about  trifling  things  ;  it  even  gave  me  happiness 
to  see  her  lay  aside  her  hat  and  shawl.  She  left  me 
alone  for  a  time  and  returned  with  her  hair  charmingly 
arranged.  Her  pretty  toilet  had  been  made  for  me  ! 
During  dinner,  she  paid  me  many  attentions,  and  dis- 
played all  those  little  graces  that  seem  nothing  in  them- 
selves, yet  are  the  half  of  life.  When  we  were  both 
seated  on  silken  cushions  beside  a  sparkling  fire,  sur- 
rounded by  the  delightful  creations  of  oriental  luxury  ; 
when  I  beheld  so  near  to  me  the  woman  whose  cele- 
brated beauty  moved  all  hearts,  a  woman  difficult  to 
conquer,  yet  now  addressing  me,  and  making  me  the 
object  of  her  delightful  coquetn~,  —  the  felicity  of  my 
.mind  and  of  my  senses  became  actual  suffering.  I 
suddenly  remembered  the  important  matter  about  the 
memoirs,  which  I  had  agreed  to  arrange  that  night,  and 
I  rose  to  leave  Fedora  and  keep  my  appointment. 

"  6  What!  going  already?'  she  said,  as  she  saw  me 
take  my  hat. 

"  Ah,  she  loved  me  !  at  least  I  thought  so  as  I  heard 
her  utter  those  few  words  in  caressing  tones.  To  pro- 
long that  ecstasy  I  would  willingly  have  cut  two  years 
from  the  end  of  life  for  every  hour  that  she  thus  granted 
to  me.  My  happiness  was  the  dearer  for  the  loss  of 
my  only  chance  of  money.  It  was  midnight  when  at 
last  she  sent  me  away.  But  on  the  morrow  my  happi- 
ness cost  me  some  remorse  ;  I  feared  I  had  lost  my 
opportunity  in  the  affair  of  the  memoirs,  now  of  vital 
importance  to  me.  I  went  to  find  Rastignac,  and  to- 
gether we  surprised  the  titular  author  of  my  coming 
work  just  as  he  was  getting  out  of  bed.    Finot  read  me 


158 


The  Magic  Skin. 


a  formal  agreement,  in  which  there  was  no  mention  of 
my  aunt,  and  after  it  was  signed  he  paid  me  one 
hundred  and  fifty  francs  in  advance.  We  all  three 
breakfasted  together.  When  I  had  paid  for  my  new 
hat,  sixt}T  cachets  at  thirty  sous,  and  my  debts,  there 
remained  only  thirty  francs  ;  but  all  my  difficulties 
were  over  for  the  time  being.  If  I  had  allowed  Ras- 
tignac  to  wholly  persuade  me,  I  might  have  become 
practically  wealthy  by  adopting  what  he  called  4  the 
English  system.'  He  wanted  me  to  establish  a  credit 
and  borrow  money  ;  declaring  that  loans  sustained 
credit.  According  to  his  ideas  the  most  solid  capital 
in  the  world  was  the  future.  To  hypothecate,  as  he 
said,  my  debts  upon  future  contingencies,  he  gave  my 
custom  to  his  own  tailor,  an  artist  who  understood 
young  men,  and  who  would  let  me  alone  till  I 
married. 

"From  that  day  I  abandoned  the  studious  and  mo- 
nastic life  which  I  had  led  for  three  years.  I  went 
habitually  to  Fedora's  house,  where  I  tried  to  surpass 
in  assumption  and  impertinence  the  heroes  of  her 
coterie.  Thinking  that  I  was  forever  quit  of  poverty 
I  recovered  my  freedom  of  mind.  I  surpassed  my 
rivals,  and  was  admitted  to  be  a  man  of  power  and 
fascination.  Yet  clever  persons  were  not  wanting  who 
said  of  me,  4  So  intelligent  a  }Toung  man  keeps  his 
passions  to  his  head.'  They  praised  my  mind  at  the 
expense  of  my  heart.  '  Happy  fellow,  not  to  love,' 
they  cried  ;  '  if  he  were  in  love  he  could  not  keep  his 
gayety,  his  animation. '  And  yet  I  was  amorously  stupid 
in  presence  of  Fedora.  Alone  with  her,  I  found  noth- 
ing to  say  ;  or  if  I  spoke  I  only  misrepresented  love. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


159 


I  was  mournfully  gay,  like  a  courtesan  who  tries  to 
hide  a  cruel  mortification.  Still,  I  endeavored  to  make 
myself  indispensable  to  her  life,  her  happiness,  and  her 
vanity.  I  was  a  slave  waiting  beside  her,  a  plaything 
to  be  ordered  about.  After  wasting  my  days  in  this 
manner,  I  went  home  to  work  all  night,  seldom  sleeping 
more  than  two  or  three  hours  In  the  morning.  But  not 
possessing,  like  Rastignac,  the  habits  of  the  4  English 
system,'  I  was  soon  without  a  penny.  From  that  day, 
my  dear  friend,  I  became  a  hanger-on  without  suc- 
cesses, a  dandy  without  money,  a  lover  without  rights. 
I  fell  back  into  the  precarious  life,  the  cold,  hopeless, 
heavy  misery  carefully  hidden  under  the  deceitful  ap- 
pearance of  luxury.  My  earlier  sufferings  returned  to 
me,  but  they  were  less  acute.  I  was  now  familiar  with 
their  terrible  crises.  Often  the  cakes  and  tea  so  parsi- 
moniously offered  in  great  houses  were  my  only  nour- 
ishment. Sometimes  the  countess's  grand  dinners  fed 
me  for  two  days.  I  employed  my  time,  my  powers, 
and  my  scientific  observation  in  penetrating,  step  by 
step,  Fedora's  impenetrable  character.  Up  to  this 
time  hope  or  despair  had  influenced  my  judgment.  I 
saw  her,  by  turns,  a  loving  woman  or  the  most  unfeel- 
ing of  her  sex. 

uBut  such  alternations  of  joy  and  sadness  became 
intolerable.  I  tried  to  kill  my  love,  and  so  put  an  end 
to  this  awful  struggle.  A  noxious  light  darted  at 
times  into  my  soul  and  showed  me  the  dark  abysses 
between  us.  Fedora  justified  all  my  distrust.  Never 
did  I  see  a  tear  in  her  eye.  A  tender  scene  at  a 
theatre  left  her  cold  and  jesting.  All  her  wit  and 
cleverness  were  reserved  for  her  own  ends  ;  she  had 


160 


The  Magic  Skin. 


no  conception  of  the  sorrows  or  happiness  of  others. 
In  short,  she  had  once  more  tricked  me  !  Happy  in 
offering  her  a  sacrifice,  I  humiliated  myself  and  went 
to  see  my  relation  the  Duc  de  Navarreins,  an  egoist, 
who  blushed  for  my  poverty,  and  had  done  me  too 
many  wrongs  not  to  feel  an  aversion  to  me.  He  re- 
ceived me  with  the  cold  politeness  which  makes  every 
word  and  gesture  an  insult  ;  his  uneasy  air  actually 
excited  my  pity.  I  was  ashamed,  for  his  sake,  at  such 
pettiness  in  the  midst  of  such  grandeur.  He  spoke  of 
his  losses,  occasioned  by  a  fall  in  the  three  per  cents, 
but  I  cut  him  short  with  a  statement  of  the  object  of 
my  visit.  The  instant  change  in  his  manner  disgusted 
me —  Well  !  my  dear  Emile,  he  came  to  see  the  coun- 
tess, and  I  was  set  aside.  Fedora  exercised  upon 
him  all  her  enchantments.  She  completely  won  him  ; 
she  managed  the  mysterious  affair  without  consulting 
me  ;  I  had  simply  been  her  tool  !  She  no  longer  looked 
at  me  when  my  cousin  was  present,  and  showed  me  less 
courtesy  than  on  the  day  I  first  went  to  her  house. 
One  evening  she  humiliated  me  in  presence  of  the  duke 
with  a  gesture  and  a  look  that  no  words  can  describe. 
I  left  the  house  with  a  bursting  heart,  forming  wild 
schemes  of  vengeance  and  retaliation. 

"  Sometimes  I  accompanied  her  to  the  opera,  and 
there,  beside  her,  filled  with  my  love,  I  contemplated 
her  beautj'  as  I  gave  rnyself  up  to  the  influence  of  the 
music,  spending  my  soul  in  the  double  joy  of  loving 
and  of  hearing  my  emotions  echoed  in  the  language  of 
the  musician.  My  passion  was  all  about  us,  in  the 
air,  on  the  stage  ;  triumphant  everywhere  except  in 
the  heart  of  my  mistress.    I  took  her  hand  ;  I  studied 


The  Magie  Skin. 


161 


her  features  and  her  eyes,  soliciting  the  fusion  of  our 
feelings  in  one  of  those  sudden  harmonies  evoked  by 
music  which  bring  true  hearts  to  vibrate  in  unison, 
but  her  hand  was  mute,  her  eyes  said  nothing.  When 
the  fire  of  my  feelings,  issuing  from  eveiy  feature,  struck 
sharply  on  her  face  she  gave  me  that  collected  smile, 
that  conventional  sweetness  which  appears  on  the  lips 
of  every  portrait  exhibited  in  the  Salon.  She  never  lis- 
tened to  the  music.  The  divine  scores  of  Rossini, 
Cimarosa,  Zingarelli  reminded  her  of  no  sentiment,  in- 
terpreted no  poem  of  her  life  ;  her  soul  was  arid.  She 
sat  there  like  an  actor  in  presence  of  acting.  Her  opera- 
glass  was  turned  incessantly  from  box  to  box  ;  uneas}r, 
though  tranquil  outwardly,  she  was  a  slave  to  the 
world  of  fashion  ;  her  box,  her  appearance,  her  toilet, 
her  carriage,  her  person  were  all  in  all  for  her.  You 
will  often  find  persons  of  stalwart  appearance  whose 
heart  is  tender  and  delicate  within  an  iron  frame  ;  but 
Fedora  hid  an  iron  heart  within  her  slender  and  grace- 
ful body.  My  fatal  perceptions  tore  off  her  disguises. 
If  good  breeding  consists  in  forgetting  ourselves  for 
others,  in  keeping  our  tones  and  gestures  to  unfailing 
courtesy,  and  in  pleasing  those  about  us  by  render- 
ing them  pleased  and  satisfied  with  themselves,  then 
Fedora,  in  spite  of  her  apparent  refinement,  did  not 
efface  all  signs  of  a  plebeian  origin  ;  her  forgetfulness 
of  herself  was  false  ;  her  good  manners,  far  from  in- 
nate, were  laboriously  studied  ;  her  very  politeness 
showed  a  tinge  of  servitude. 

"  And  yet  to  those  who  pleased  her,  the  countess's 
honeyed  words  seemed  the  expression  of  a  kind  heart, 
her  pretentious  exaggerations  the  utterance  of  a  noble 

11 


162 


The  Magic  Shin. 


enthusiasm.  I  alone  had  studied  her  artifices.  I  had 
stripped  from  her  inner  being  the  slight  covering  that 
sufficed  the  world,  and  was  no  longer  the  dupe  of  her 
trickeries  ;  I  knew  to  its  depths  that  cat-like  spirit. 
When  some  ninny  complimented  and  praised  her  I 
felt  ashamed  for  her.  And  yet  I  loved  her,  loved  her 
ever  !  I  hoped  to  melt  the  ice  of  her  nature  beneath 
the  wings  of  a  poet's  love.  Could  I  once  have  opened 
her  heart  to  woman's  tenderness,  could  I  have  taught 
her  the  sublimity  of  self-devotion,  she  would  have 
seemed  to  me  perfect,  —  an  angel  indeed.  I  loved  her 
as  a  man,  a  lover,  an  artist,  when  to  obtain  her  I  ought 
never  to  have  loved  her  at  all.  A  high-living  man  of 
the  world,  or  a  cool  speculator,  could  perhaps  have  won 
her.  Vain  and  artful,  she  might  have  listened  to  the 
voice  of  vanity,  or  allowed  herself  to  be  entangled 
in  the  net  of  an  intrigue  ;  a  hard  and  frigid  nature 
might  have  controlled  hers.  Sharp  pains  cut  me  to 
the  quick  when  I  came  face  to  face  with  her  egotism. 
With  anguish  I  imagined  her  some  day  alone  in  life, 
not  knowing  where  to  stretch  her  hands,  and  meeting 
no  friendly  looks  on  which  to  rest  her  own.  One  even- 
ing I  had  the  courage  to  picture  to  her  in  startling 
colors  her  deserted  old  age.  barren  and  devoid  of  in- 
terests. When  I  made  her  see  the  awful  vengeance  of 
denied  and  thwarted  nature  she  gave  me  this  shameless 
answer  :  — 

44  4  I  should  still  have  my  wealth  ;  and  gold  can  cre- 
ate around  us  all  the  feelings  which  we  require  for  our 
comfort.' 

"  I  left  the  house  overcome  by  the  logic  of  that  lux- 
ury, of  that  woman,  of  that  society  ;  and  bitterly  I  re- 


The  Magic  Skirl. 


163 


pented  of  my  mad  idolatry.  I  would  not  love  Pauline 
because  she  was  poor  ;  was  the  rich  Fedora  wrong  be- 
cause she  repulsed  me  ?  Our  conscience  is  an  infallible 
judge,  provided  we  do  not  kill  it.  '  Fedora,'  cried  a 
sophistical  voice  within  me,  1  neither  loves  nor  repulses 
any  one.  She  is  free  ;  but  she  once  gave  herself  for 
gold.  Lover  or  husband,  the  Russian  count  possessed 
her.  Temptation  will  surely  come  to  her  some  day. 
Await  it.'  Neither  virtuous  nor  faulty,  the  woman 
lived  apart  from  humanity,  in  a  sphere  of  her  own, 
were  it  hell  or  paradise.  This  mysterious  female,  robed 
in  cashmeres  and  laces,  set  every  fibre  of  my  heart, 
every  human  emotion  within  me,  —  pride,  ambition, 
love,  curiosity,  —  in  motion. 

"  About  this  time,  a  fashionable  caprice,  or  that  desire 
to  seem  original  which  pursues  us  all,  had  led  to  a  mania 
for  attending  a  little  theatre  on  the  boulevard.  The 
countess  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  befloured  face  of 
an  actor,  who  was  much  praised  by  certain  critics,  and 
I  obtained  the  honor  of  taking  her  to  the  first  repre- 
sentation of  some  wretched  farce.  The  cost  of  the  box 
was  scarcely  five  francs  ;  but  even  so,  I  did  not  possess 
a  single  farthing.  Having  half  a  volume  of  the  memoirs 
still  to  write,  I  could  not  apply  to  Finot,  and  Eastignac, 
my  private  providence,  was  absent. 

"  This  perpetual  pauperism  was  the  evil  genius  of 
my  life.  Once,  as  we  left  the  Bouffons  on  a  rainy 
night,  Fedora  insisted  on  her  footman's  calling  me  a 
cab,  in  spite  of  my  assurances  that  I  liked  the  rain,  and 
was,  moreover,  going  to  a  gambling-house.  She  did  not 
guess  my  real  reasons  from  the  embarrassment  of  nry 
manner,  nor  from  the  half-jesting  sadness  of  my  words. 


164 


The  Magic  Skin. 


The  lives  of  young  men  are  subjected  to  singular  acci- 
dents of  this  sort.  As  I  drove  along,  every  turn  of  the 
wheels  awakened  thoughts  that  burned  my  heart.  I 
endeavored  in  vain  to  escape  from  the  coach  while  it 
was  still  moving.  I  burst  into  convulsive  laughter,  and 
then  sat  rigid  in  gloomy  stillness,  like  a  man  in  the 
stocks.  When  I  reached  the  house,  Pauline  inter- 
rupted my  first  hesitating  words  :  '  If  you  have  no 
change/  she  said,  '  let  me  pa}'  the  coachman.'  Ah  ! 
the  music  of  Rossini  was  nothing  to  the  charm  of  those 
words  ! 

"  But  to  return  to  the  Funambules.  To  be  able  to 
escort  the  countess,  I  thought  of  pawning  the  gold 
setting  round  my  mother's  picture.  Though  the  Mont- 
de-Piété  had  always  appeared  to  my  mind  as  the  high- 
road to  the  galleys,  yet  I  now  felt  that  I  would  rather 
take  my  bed  and  pledge  it  there  than  beg  a  charity. 
The  glance  of  a  man  from  whom  3-ou  solicit  money  is 
so  wounding  !  Certain  loans  cost  us  our  honor,  just  as 
certain  refusals  from  the  lips  of  a  friend  dispel  our  last 
illusions.  When  I  re-entered  the  Hôtel  Saint-Quentin, 
Pauline  was  painting  her  screens,  but  her  mother  had 
gone  to  bed.  Casting  a  furtive  look  at  the  bed,  whose 
curtains  were  slightly  raised,  I  thought  I  perceived  that 
Madame  Gaudin  was  asleep. 

"  6  Something  troubles  j'ou/  said  Pauline,  laying  down 
her  brushes. 

"  '  My  dear  child,  you  can  do  me  a  great  service/  I 
answered.  She  gave  me  such  a  happy  glance  that  I 
quivered.  6  Can  she  love  me?  '  I  thought.  '  Pauline/ 
I  said,  and  I  sat  down  by  her  to  study  her.  She 
guessed  my  thoughts,  for  the  very  tones  of  my  voice 


The  Magic  Skin. 


165 


were  a  question  ;  then  she  lowered  her  eyes,  and  I 
watched  her,  believing  I  could  read  her  heart  as  plainly 
as  I  could  my  own,  so  pure,  so  artless,  was  her  face. 
"  4  You  love  me? '  I  cried. 

44  4  A  little,  —  passionately ,s —  not  at  all  !  '  she  an- 
swered, laughing. 

"No,  she  did  not  love  me.  Her  jesting  tone  and 
pretty  gesture  only  meant  the  frolicsome  gratitude  of  a 
young  girl.  I  therefore  told  her  my  distress,  explained 
the  embarrassment  in  which  I  found  myself,  and  begged 
her  to  help  me.  4  Oh.  Monsieur  Raphael  !  '  she  said, 
4  you  will  not  go  }^ourself  to  the  Mont-de-Piété,  and  yet 
}^ou  send  me  !  '  I  blushed,  confounded  by  a  child's  logic. 
.Then  she  took  my  hand,  as  if  to  compensate  me  by  a 
caress  for  the  truth  of  her  exclamation.  4  Indeed,  I  would 
go,'  she  said,  4  but  it  is  not  necessaiy.  This  morning  I 
found  two  five-franc  pieces  behind  the  piano,  and  I  put 
them  on  your  table  ;  they  must  have  slipped,  without 
your  noticing  them,  between  the  case  and  the  wall.' 

4  4  4  You  will  soon  get  your  money,  Monsieur  Raphael/ 
said  the  good  mother,  putting  her  head  from  between  the 
curtains,  4  and  I  can  very  well  lend  y  ou  some  till  then., 

4  4  4  Oh,  Pauline!'  I  cried,  pressing  her  hand,  4 1 
would  I  were  rich.' 

4  4  4  Bah  !  why  ?  '  she  said  with  roguish  air.  Her  hand 
trembled  in  mine  and  answered  to  the  beatings  of 
my  heart  ;  she  quickly  withdrew  it  and  began  to  ex- 
amine the  palm  of  mine.  4  You  will  marry  a  rich 
woman,'  she  said  ;  4  but  she  will  make  you  unhappy. 
Ah,  my  God,  she  will  kill  you  !  I  am  sure  of  it.'  In 
her  startled  cry  there  seemed  a  sort  of  belief  in  the 
foolish  superstitions  of  her  mother. 


166 


The  Magic  Skin. 


u  £  You  are  very  credulous,  Pauline.' 

"  '  Oh,  it  is  certain  !  '  she  cried,  looking  at  me  with 
terror  in  her  eyes  ;  '  the  woman  you  will  love  will  kill 
you  !  '  She  took  a  brush  and  began  to  moisten  her 
colors,  showing  signs  of  strong  emotion.  At  that  mo- 
ment I  would  gladly  have  believed  in  her  fancies.  A 
man  is  never  altogether  miserable  if  he  is  superstitious. 
Superstition  means  hope.  I  went  up  to  my  room,  and 
there  beheld  two  noble  five-franc  pieces,  whose  prés- 
ence seemed  to  me  inexplicable.  I  went  to  sleep  en- 
deavoring to  remember  my  expenditures  and  account 
for  this  unlooked-for  treasure.  The  next  day  Pauline 
came  to  me  as  I  was  preparing  to  go  out  to  hire  the 
box  at  the  theatre. 

* c  Perhaps  ten  francs  is  not  enough,'  she  said,  blush- 
ing ;  '  my  mother  has  sent  me  up  with  this.  Take  it, 
take  it.'  She  laid  fifteen  francs  on  my  table  and  tried 
to  run  away,  but  I  prevented  her.  Admiration  dried 
the  tears  that  came  to  my  eyes. 

64  6  Pauline,'  I  said,  '  you  are  indeed  an  angel.  This 
loan  is  less  precious  to  me  than  the  modesty  of  feeling 
with  which  you  offer  it.  I  have  desired  a  rich  and  ele- 
gant and  titled  wife  ;  alas,  at  this  moment  I  wish  I  had 
millions  that  I  might  many  a  young  girl  like  you,  poor 
in  money  and  rich  in  heart,  and  renounce  the  fatal  pas- 
sion which  will  kill  me  ;  in  that  prediction  you  may  be 
right.' 

"  '  Enough,  enough  !  '  she  cried,  as  she  ran  away,  and 
I  heard  her  bird-like  voice  with  its  pretty  trills  echoing 
up  the  staircase.  '  She  is  happy,  indeed,  not  to  love,' 
I  thought,  remembering  the  tortures  I  had  suffered  for 
the  last  few  months.    Pauline's  fifteen  francs  proved 


The  Magic  Skin. 


167 


very  valuable  to  me.  Fedora,  dreading  the  emanations 
of  the  great  unwashed  at  the  theatre  to  which  we  were 
going,  regretted  that  she  had  brought  no  bouquet;  I 
got  her  some  flowers,  and  gave  her  therewith  my  life 
and  fortune.  I  felt  both  remorse  and  pleasure  in  giving 
her  a  bouquet  whose  price  revealed  to  me  the  cost  of 
superficial  gallantry  in  the  world  of  fashion.  Presently, 
however,  she  complained  of  the  rather  strong  odor  of  a 
Mexican  jasmine  ;  then  she  felt  a  violent  disgust  at  the 
vulgar  theatre,  and  the  hard  seats  ;  she  reproached  me 
for  bringing  her  there  ;  although  I  was  beside  her,  she 
wished  to  leave,  and  did  leave.  To  have  endured  sleep- 
less nights,  to  have  spent  two  months'  means  of  living 
and  yet  not  to  have  pleased  her  !  Never  did  she  seem, 
evil  genius  that  she  was,  more  gracious  or  more  un- 
feeling. As  we  returned  to  the  house  seated  together 
in  a  narrow  coupé,  I  felt  her  breath,  I  touched  her  per- 
fumed glove,  I  saw  distinctly  the  treasures  of  her  beauty, 
I  inhaled  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the  iris, —  all  of  woman 
and  yet  no  woman  at  all.  At  that  moment  a  ray  of 
light  helped  me  to  look  into  the  depths  of  that  mys- 
terious life.  I  suddenly  remembered  a  book  recently 
published  by  a  poet,  a  true  artistic  conception  thrown 
into  the  figure  of  Polyclès.  I  fancied  I  saw  the  monster, 
sometimes  as  an  officer  conquering  a  fiery  horse,  some- 
times as  a  young  girl  at  her  toilet  who  drives  a  lover  to 
despair,  or  again  as  a  lover  who  breaks  the  heart  of 
some  good  and  modest  virgin.  Finding  no  other  way 
to  prevail  with  Fedora,  I  told  her  the  fantastic  tale  ;  but 
not  a  glimmer  of  her  resemblance  to  this  weird  poetry 
crossed  her  mind  ;  she  laughed  at  it  heartily,  like  a  child 
at  the  Arabian  Nights. 


168 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  When  I  left  her  and  returned  home,  I  told  myself 
that  since  Fedora  resisted  the  love  of  a  man  of  my  age 
and  the  contagious  warmth  of  a  soul  that  sought  com- 
munion with  hers,  there  must  be  some  nrystery  that 
withheld  her.  Perhaps,  like  Lady  Delacour,  she  was 
the  victim  of  cancer.  Her  life  was  assuredly  all  artificial. 
The  very  thought  chilled  me.  Then  I  formed  a  plan  at 
once  the  most  matter-of-fact  and  the  most  insensate  that 
lover  ever  dreamed  of.  To  examine  Fedora  personally, 
just  as  I  had  now  studied  her  intellectually,  I  resolved 
to  pass  a  night,  unknown  to  her,  in  her  chamber.  This 
is  how  I  accomplished  the  enterprise,  the  thought  of 
which  consumed  m}r  soul  as  a  desire  of  vengeance  eats 
the  heart  of  a  Corsican  monk.  On  her  reception  days 
Fedora  received  so  large  a  number  of  guests  that  no 
particular  notice  was  taken  of  how  they  came  in  or  went 
out.  Certain  of  being  able  to  remain  in  the  house  with- 
out causing  scandal,  I  awaited  the  next  reception  even- 
ing with  impatience.  As  I  dressed  myself  I  put  a  little 
penknife  into  my  pocket  in  default  of  a  stiletto.  If 
found  upon  me,  that  innocent  literary  implement  could 
afford  no  ground  for  suspicion,  and  not  knowing  where 
my  romantic  resolution  might  lead  me,  I  wished  to  go 
armed.  When  the  salons  began  to  fill  I  went  into  the 
bedroom  to  examine  it  carefully,  and  found  to  my  joy 
that  the  outside  shutters  and  blinds  were  carefully  closed. 
Then  I  detached  the  heavy  curtains  from  their  loopings 
and  drew  them  across  the  window  ;  I  risked  much  in 
making  these  preparations,  but  I  had  coldly  calculated 
and  accepted  all  dangers.  Toward  midnight,  I  hid 
behind  a  curtain  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  trusting 
that  neither  my  cramped  position  nor  an  unexpected 


The  Magic  Skin. 


169 


cough  or  sneeze  would  betray  me.  The  white  silk  and 
muslin  of  the  curtains  fell  before  me  in  broad  folds  like 
the  pipes  of  an  organ,  and  in  them  I  cut  tiny  loopholes 
with  my  penknife  so  as  to  see  clearly.  I  heard  the 
sounds  in  the  salon,  the  laughter  of  the  guests,  and  the 
rising  and  falling  of  their  voices.  Presently  a  few  men 
came  to  take  their  hats,  which  were  placed  on  a  bureau 
near  to  where  I  stood.  As  they  brushed  the  curtains  I 
trembled,  fearing  that  in  their  haste  to  get  away  they 
might  look  for  their  hats  behind  the  curtain.  The  fact 
that  no  such  misfortune  occurred,  made  me  augur  well 
for  my  enterprise. 

4  4  Only  about  five  or  six  intimate  friends  now  remained 
with  the  countess,  and  these  she  invited  to  take  tea  in 
the  Gothic  boudoir  adjoining  the  bedroom.  The  calum- 
nies and  evil-speaking  for  which  society  reserves  the 
little  belief  that  remains  to  it  were  now  mingled  with 
epigrams  and  witty  opinions,  and  the  rattle  of  cups  and 
spoons.  Rastignac  in  particular  excited  bursts  of 
laughter  by  his  cutting  speeches.  4  Monsieur  de  Ras- 
tignac,' said  Fedora,  laughing,  4  is  a  man  with  whom  it 
is  dangerous  to  quarrel.'  i  That's  very  true,'  he  an- 
swered, candidly  ;  4 1  have  always  been  right  in  my 
hatreds  —  and  in  my  friendships,'  he  added.  4  My  ene- 
mies serve  me  as  well,  perhaps,  as  my  friends.  I  have 
made  a  special  study  of  modern  jargons  and  the  natural 
artifices  which  people  employ  for  attack  and  defence 
both.  The  eloquence  of  statesmen  is  perfected  by  social 
training.  Have  you  a  friend  without  any  mind  ?  talk 
about  his  uprightness  and  candor.  Is  the  book  of  that 
other  man  intolerably  dull?  call  it  a  conscientious  labor  ; 
if  ill-written,  praise  its  ideas.    Another  man  is  faithless, 


170 


The  Magic  Skin. 


without  constancy  and  fails  you  at  every  turn  ;  bah  I 
he  is  seductive,  winning,  charming.  As  for  your  ene- 
mies, you  can  bring  both  the  dead  and  living  against 
them  ;  you  reverse  the  whole  order  of  your  remarks  ; 
and  you  are  quite  as  perceptive  of  their  defects  as  you 
were  of  the  virtues  of  your  friends.  This  application  of 
an  opera-glass  to  the  moral  eye  is  the  secret  of  conver- 
sation and  the  whole  art  of  a  courtier.  Xot  to  use  it  is 
to  fight,  unarmed,  adversaries  who  are  cased  in  iron  like 
knights-banneret.  I  use  it.  I  may  abuse  it  sometimes. 
But  I  am  respected, —  I  and  my  friends  ;  and  it  is  well 
known  that  my  sword  is  as  good  as  my  tongue.' 

"  One  of  Fedora's  most  fervent  admirers,  a  young  man 
whose  impertinence  was  actually  celebrated,  for  he  made 
it  an  element  in  his  success,  picked  up  the  glove  which 
Eastignac  so  contemptuously  threw  down.  He  spoke 
among  other  things  of  me,  and  praised  my  talents  and 
personal  qualities  immensely.  Rastignac  had  forgotten 
that  form  of  malicious  attack.  The  sardonic  praise  de- 
ceived Fedora,  who  immolated  me  without  pity  ;  to 
amuse  her  friends  she  told  my  secrets,  my  desires,  and 
m}'  hopes.  '  He  has  a  career  before  him/  said  Ras- 
tignac. 4  Perhaps  some  day  he  will  prove  to  be  a  man 
able  to  take  a  cruel  revenge  ;  his  talents  are  equal  to  his 
courage,  and  I  think  people  are  very  foolish  to  attack 
him  ;  he  has  a  memory  — ' 

"  '  — and  writes  memoirs,'  said  the  countess. 

u<  Memoirs  of  a  false  countess,  madame/  said  Ras- 
tignac. 1  To  write  them  he  needs  another  sort  of 
courage.' 

"  I  think  he  has  a  great  deal  of  courage/  she  replied  ; 
'he  is  faithful  to  me.' 


The  Magic  Skin. 


171 


44  A  mad  temptation  possessed  me  to  appear  suddenly 
before  them,  like  Banquo's  ghost  in  Macbeth.  I  had 
lost  a  mistress,  but  I  had  ' gained  a  friend.  But  again 
love  breathed  into  my  mind  one  of  those  cowardty,  sub- 
tile paradoxes  with  which  we  love  to  cheat  our  pain. 
If  Fedora  loves  me,  I  thought,  surely  she  is  right  to 
conceal  her  affection  with  a  merry  jest.  Soon  my  im- 
pertinent rival,  the  last  remaining  guest,  rose  to  leave 
her.  4  What,  going  alread}T  ?  '  she  said,  in  the  persuasive 
tone  I  knew  so  well,  and  which  made  me  quiver.  1  You 
will  not  give  me  another  moment  ?  you  cannot  sacrifice 
any  of  your  pleasures  to  me  ?  '  He  went  awa}\  '  Ah  !  ' 
she  exclaimed,  yawning,  4  how  tiresome  they  all  are  !  ' 
then  she  pulled  a  bellrope  violently,  and  the  sound  of 
the  bell  rang  through  the  apartment. 

44  The  countess  entered  her  bedroom  humming  a  pas- 
sage in  the  Pria  che  spunti.  No  one  had  ever  heard 
her  sing,  and  the  fact  had  given  rise  to  certain  odd 
conjectures.  It  was  said  that  she  had  promised  her 
first  lover,  who  adored  her  talent  and  was  jealous  of  her 
in  his  grave,  to  let  no  one  enjoy  a  pleasure  that  once 
was  his  alone.  I  stretched  every  faculty  of  my  being 
to  catch  the  sounds.  Note  by  note  the  voice  rose 
higher;  Fedora  grew  animated,  the  qualities  of  her 
throat  developed,  and  the  melody  became  almost  a 
thing  divine.  A  lucid  clearness,  a  truth  of  tone  and 
something  harmonious  and  vibrant  which  penetrated, 
stirred,  and  excited  the  heart,  was  in  this  carefully  con- 
cealed organ.  Musicians  are  nearly  alwa}rs  love-in- 
spired. She  who  was  singing  thus  must  surely  know 
how  to  love.  The  beauty  of  her  voice  was  one  mystery 
.  the  more  in  this  mysterious  woman.    I  saw  her  then  as 


172 


The  Magic  Skin. 


I  now  see  you  ;  she  seemed  listening  to  herself  and 
drinking  in  a  sensuous  delight  that  came  from  her  own 
being  ;  it  was  as  though  she  felt  the  joys  of  love. 

"  She  stood  before  the  fireplace  when  she  ended  the 
rondo  ;  but  as  the  sounds  died  away  her  face  changed, 
the  features  lost  their  composure  and  expressed  weariness 
and  fatigue.  The  mask  had  fallen  ;  actress  that  she  was, 
the  play  was  over.  And  yet  the  sort  of  blight  imprinted 
on  her  beauty  by  the  cessation  of  the  part  she  played,  or 
by  the  lassitude  of  this  particular  evening,  was  not  with- 
out its  charm.  Here  is  the  true  woman  at  last,  I  thought. 
Standing  before  the  fire  she  placed  her  foot,  as  though 
to  warm  it,  on  the  fender,  took  off  her  gloves,  unfastened 
her  bracelets,  and  drew  a  gold  chain  on  which  a  jewelled 
smelling-bottle  was  hung,  over  her  head.  I  felt  an  in- 
describable pleasure  in  watching  her  graceful  move- 
ments, like  those  of  a  cat  as  she  washes  and  combs  her 
fur  in  the  sunshine.  She  gazed  into  the  mirror  before 
her,  and  said  aloud  in  a  tone  of  ill-humor  :  6 1  did  not 
look  well  to-night,  my  complexion  is  fading  frightfully. 
I  ought  to  give  up  this  life  of  dissipation  and  go  to  bed 
earlier —  Where  can  Justine  be?'  She  rang  again, 
and  her  maid  came  hastily  into  the  room.  Where  did 
the  woman  keep  herself?  She  came  by  a  secret  door. 
My  imagination  had  long  suspected  this  invisible  ser- 
vant, a  tall,  dark,  well-made  girl.  '  Did  Madame  ring?' 
she  asked.  'Twice/  replied  Fedora;  'are  you  going 
to  pretend  deafness  ?  '  4 1  was  making  Madame's  almond 
milk.'  Justine  knelt  down,  untied  her  mistress's  san- 
dals and  removed  the  shoes,  while  Fedora  lay  carelessly 
back  in  an  armchair  beside  the  fire,  3-awning  and  passing 
her  fingers  through  her  hair.    All  was  natural  and  easy 


The  Magic  Skin. 


173 


in  her  movements,  and  nothing  revealed  any  secret  cause 
of  suffering,  such  as  I  had  Suspected. 

44  4  George  is  in  love/  she  said  suddenly.  4  I  shall 
dismiss  him  :  he  has  drawn  the  curtains  again  to-night. 
What  is  he  thinking  of  ?  '  The  blood  flowed  to  my  heart 
at  the  remark,  but  it  was  not  long  a  question  of  curtains. 

"  4  Life  is  very  empty,'  said  the  countess.  6  Ah,  take 
care  !  don't  scratch  me  as  you  did  yesterday.  Look,' 
showing  a  little  polished  knee,  4  I  bear  the  marks  of  it 
yet.'  She  put  her  naked  feet  into  velvet  slippers  edged 
with  swansdown,  and  unfastened  her  dress,  while  Justine 
made  ready  to  brush  her  hair. 

u  '  You  ought  to  marry,  madame,  and  have  children/ 
said  the  maid.  4  Children  !  they  would  put  an  end  to 
me  at  once/  cried  Fedora.  4  A  husband  !  Where  is 
the  man  to  wrhom  I  could  —  Was  my  hair  becomingly 
arranged  to-night?  '  —  '  No,  not  entirely.'  —  4  What  a 
fool  you  are.'  —  4  Nothing  suits  3Tou  less  than  to  crêpe 
your  hair/  replied  Justine  ;  4  thick,  smooth  curls  are 
far  more  becoming  to  you.'  —  4  You  think  so  ?  '  — 4  Wiry, 
yes,  madame;  fluffy,  crêped  hair  is  only  suited  to 
blondes" — 44  Marry?  no,  no!  Marriage  is  a  traffic 
for  which  I  was  not  born.' 

44  What  a  terrible  scene  for  a  lover.  This  solitary 
woman,  without  relations  or  friends,  atheist  in  love, 
unbelieving  of  sentiment,  without  the  need,  so  natural 
to  all  human  beings,  of  heart  intercourse,  and  yet 
through  some  feeble  sense  of  it  reduced  to  talk  with 
her  waiting-woman  in  vapid,  empty  phrases  —  ah!  I 
pitied  her.  Justine  unlaced  her.  I  watched  her  with 
curiosity  as  the  last  veil  was  removed.  The  sight 
dazzled  me  ;  through  the  linen  of  her  chemise,  and  by 


174 


The  Magic  Skin. 


the  light  of  the  wax  candles,  her  white  and  rosy  flesh 
shone  like  a  silver  statue  beneath  a  wrapping  of  gauze. 
No,  there  was  no  imperfection  to  make  her  dread  the 
eyes  of  love.  The  mistress  seated  herself  before  the 
fire,  silent  and  thoughtful,  while  the  maid  lit  the  taper 
in  the  alabaster  lamp  suspended  near  the  bed.  Justine 
went  to  fetch  a  warming-pan,  and  prepared  the  bed  ; 
then,  after  long  and  minute  services  which  revealed  the 
countess's  deep  veneration  for  her  own  person,  she 
assisted  her  mistress  into  bed,  and  soon  after  left  the 
room. 

"The  countess  turned  several  times;  she  was  evi- 
dently agitated  ;  she  sighed,  —  a  slight  sound  escaped 
her  lips,  and  was  perceptible  to  my  ear,  indicating 
impatience  ;  then  she  stretched  her  hand  toward  the 
table,  took  a  vial  containing  a  brown  liquid,  and  poured 
a  few  drops  into  her  milk  before  she  drank  it.  At 
length,  after  a  few  distressful  sighs,  she  cried  out, 
'  My  God  !  '  The  exclamation,  and  above  all,  the 
accent  with  which  she  uttered  it,  broke  my  heart. 
Little  by  little  she  ceased  to  move.  I  was  frightened, 
but  presently  I  heard  the  steady  regular  breathing  of  a 
person  asleep.  Then  I  parted  the  rustling  silk  curtains, 
left  imr  position  and  went  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  where 
I  stood  looking  at  her  with  indefinable  feelings.  She 
was  exquisite  as  she  lay  there.  One  arm  was  thrown 
above  her  head  like  a  child  ;  her  soft  and  tranquil  face 
surrounded  by  laces,  expressed  a  sweetness  that  im- 
passioned me.  Presuming  too  much  upon  my  own 
strength,  I  had  not  expected  the  tortures  I  now  en- 
dured, —  to  be  so  near  and  }^et  so  far  from  her  !  '  My 
God  !  '  that  shred  of  an  unknown  thought,  which  was 


The  Magic  Skin.  175 


all  the  light  I  was  destined  to  carry  away  with  me,  had 
suddenly  changed  my  ideas  about  Fedora.  The  cry, 
full  of  deepest  meaning,  or  signifying  nothing,  hollow 
or  replete  with  real  things,  might  express  either  happi- 
ness or  suffering,  a  pain  of  the  body  or  a  sorrow  of 
mind.  Was  it  imprecation  or  prayer  ;  memory  or 
hope  ;  regret  or  fear?  A  lifetime  was  in  those  words,  — 
a  life  of  indigence,  or  of  wealth,  possibly  of  crime. 
The  enigma  hidden  beneath  that  beautiful  semblance 
of  a  woman  returned  to  mind;  Fedora  might  be  ex- 
plained in  so  many  ways  that  she  became  inexplicable. 
The  capricious  breath  which  came  through  her  teeth, 
sometimes  faintly,  sometimes  rirythmically,  solemnly  or 
gayly,  seemed  a  sort  of  language  to  which  thoughts  and 
feelings  might  be  attached.  I  hoped  to  surprise  her 
secrets  by  penetrating  her  sleep  ;  I  dreamed  her  dreams, 
I  floated  in  a  thousand  directions,  with  conflicting 
thoughts  and  many  judgments.  Looking  at  that  ex- 
quisite face,  so  calm  and  pure,  it  was  impossible  to 
believe  that  the  woman  had  no  heart.  I  resolved  on 
a  last  effort.  I  would  tell  her  my  life,  my  love,  my 
sacrifices  ;  perhaps  I  should  thus  awake  her  pity,  and 
win  a  tear  from  eyes  that  never  wept.  I  was  thus 
placing  my  hopes  once  more  on  a  final  attempt  to  win 
her,  when  the  noises  in  the  street  warned  me  that  day 
was  breaking.  For  a  moment  the  thought  came  to  me, 
of  Fedora  waking  in  my  arms  ;  it  tyrannized  cruelly 
over  me,  but  I  wished  to  resist  it,  and  I  fled  from  the 
room,  taking  no  precautions  to  avoid  a  noise.  Fortu- 
nately, I  found  a  door  which  opened  on  a  little  stair- 
case ;  the  key  was  in  the  lock  ;  I  closed  it  violently 
after  me,  and  without  knowing  or  caring  whether  I 


176 


The  Magic  Skin. 


were  seen,  I  sprang  down  to  the  street  in  a  few 
bounds. 

"  Two  days  later  an  author  was  to  read  a  comedy  to 
a  party  of  guests  in  the  countess's  salon.  I  went  with 
the  intention  of  remaining  to  the  last  and  proffering 
a  rather  singular  request.  I  wished  her  to  give  me  the 
whole  of  the  next  evening,  and  to  close  her  doors  so 
that  we  might  be  wholly  alone.  But  when  the  company 
had  left  and  I  found  myself  alone  with  her,  my  heart 
failed  me.  The  very  ticking  of  the  clock  terrified  me. 
It  was  a  quarter  to  twelve.  4  If  I  do  not  speak,'  I 
thought,  '  then  I  had  better  break  my  skull  against  the 
corner  of  the  chimney-piece.'  I  allowed  myself  three 
minutes'  respite  :  the  three  minutes  went  by  ;  I  did  not 
break  my  skull  against  the  marble  ;  my  heart  had 
grown  heavy,  like  a  sponge  as  it  fills  with  water. 

"'How  lively  you  are,'  she  said  to  me.  'Ah, 
madame,'  I  answered,  '  if  only  you  could  understand 
me  ! 9  — 4  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  '  she  replied  ;  '  you 
are  quite  pale.'  —  6 1  hesitate  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.' 
She  made  an  encouraging  gesture,  and  I  asked  for  the 
interview.  '  Willingly,'  she  said  ;  '  but  why  not  speak 
to  me  now  ?  '  —  'I  will  not  deceive  you,'  I  said  ;  ;  I  want 
to  pass  the  whole  evening  with  you,  as  though  we  were 
brother  and  sister.  Do  not  fear  ;  I  know  your  antip- 
athies ;  you  understand  me  well  enough  to  feel  sure 
I  will  ask  nothing  that  shall  displease  you,  —  besides,  a 
bold  man  would  never  do  as  I  am  doing.  You  have 
offered  me  friendship,  you  are  kind,  and  full  of  indul- 
gence —  well,  to-morrow  I  intend  to  bid  you  farewell. 
Don't  retract  !  '  I  cried,  for  I  saw  she  was  about  to 
speak  ;  then  I  rapidly  left  the  room. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


177 


"  It  was  in  May  last,  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, that  Fedora  received  me  alone  in  her  Gothic  bou- 
doir. I  did  not  tremble  then,  I  felt  sure  of  happiness  ; 
either  my  mistress  should  be  mine,  or  I  would  escape 
into  the  arms  of  death.  I  saw  and  condemned  the 
cowardice  of  my  love.  A  man  is  strong  when  he  ad- 
mits to  himself  his  weakness. 

"  Fedora  was  tying  on  a  sofa  with  her  feet  on  a 
cushion,  dressed  in  blue  cashmere.  An  Eastern  he- 
re tta  —  the  same  that  many  painters  give  to  the  early 
Jews  —  added  a  strange  piquancy  to  her  attractions. 
The  fugitive  charm  which  now  attached  to  her  whole 
person  seems  to  prove  that  we  are  at  times  new  beings, 
apart  from  our  previous  selves,  with  no  likeness  to  the 
I  of  the  past,  or  the  I  of  the  future.  I  had  never  seen 
her  so  glorious. 

u'Do  you  know,'  she  said,  laughing,  4  that  you  have 
piqued  my  curiosity  ?  ' 

U'I  will  not  betray  it,'  I  answered  coldly,  sitting 
down  beside  her,  and  taking  a  hand  which  she  resigned 
to  me.    '  You  sing  delightfully.' 

"  '  You  have  never  heard  rne  !  '  she  cried,  with  a 
gesture  of  surprise. 

"  6 1  will  prove  to  jom  that  I  have,  if  necessary.  Is 
that  delightful  voice  of  yours  another  mystery?  Don't 
be  uneasy  ;  I  will  not  try  to  penetrate  it.' 

"  We  talked  together  familiarly  for  more  than  an 
hour.  Though  I  took  the  tone  and  manner  and  ges- 
tures of  a  man  to  whom  Fedora  could  refuse  nothing,  I 
treated  her  with  lover-like  respect.  She  granted  me 
the  favor  of  kissing  her  hand,  which  she  ungloved  with 
dainty  motions  ;  I  was  so  wrapped  in  the  illusion  in 

12 


1T8 


The  Magic  Shin. 


which  I  struggled  to  believe,  that  my  soul  seemed  to 
melt  and  pour  itself  into  that  kiss.  Fedora  allowed 
me  to  caress  and  fondle  her  with  surprising  willingness. 
But  do  not  think  me  a  fool  ;  had  I  gone  one  step  be- 
yond these  brotherly  endearments,  I  should  have  felt 
the  claws  of  the  cat.  For  more  than  ten  minutes  we 
remained  silent.  I  looked  at  her  with  admiration  ; 
lending  her  the  charms  to  which  in  truth  she  gave  the 
lie.  At  that  moment  she  was  mine,  mine  alone  ;  I 
possessed  her  intuitively  ;  I  enveloped  her  with  my 
desire,  I  held  her,  clasped  her,  wedded  her  in  imagina- 
tion. I  vanquished  Fedora  by  the  power  of  a  magnetic 
fascination  ;  and  I  have  always  regretted  that  I  did  not 
then  bring  her  wholly  under  subjection  ;  but  at  that 
moment  I  sought,  not  the  mere  woman,  but  a  soul,  a 
life,  an  ideal  and  perfect  happiness,  the  glorious  dream 
in  which  we  do  not  long  believe. 

"  É  Madame,'  I  said,  feeling  that  the  last  hour  of  my 
intoxication  had  come,  6  listen  to  me.  I  love  you  ;  you 
know  it  ;  I  have  told  it  to  }~ou  in  a  thousand  ways,  and 
you  ought  to  have  understood  me.  I  would  not  seek 
your  love  by  the  airs  and  graces  of  a  dandy,  nor  with 
the  flattery  and  importunity  of  fools  like  those  who  sur- 
round you,  and  therefore  }'OU  have  failed  to  comprehend 
me.  How  many  woes  have  I  not  endured  through 
you,  though  }'ou  were  innocent  of  them  !  But  you  shall 
judge  me  now.  There  are  two  poverties  in  this  world, 
madame,  —  one  that  goes  boldly  through  the  streets  in 
rags,  like  another  Diogenes,  feeding  on  the  barest 
necessaries,  reducing  existence  to  its  simplest  wants  ; 
a  poverty  that  is  perhaps  happier  than  wealth,  at  anjr 
rate  more  careless,  grasping  the  world  at  a  point 


The  Magic  Shin.  179 


where  other  men  will  have  none  of  it.  Then  comes  the 
other  poverty,  of  luxury,  —  the  hidalgo's  poverty,  pau- 
perism behind  a  title,  in  a  white  waistcoat  and  yellow 
gloves,  which  drives  in  carriages  and  has  not  a  penny 
to  save  a  fortune.  One  is  the  poverty  of  the  people,  the 
other  the  poverty  of  swindlers,  of  kings,  and  men  of 
talent.  I  am  neither  people  nor  king  nor  swindler, 
possibly  not  even  a  man  of  talent  ;  call  me  an  excep- 
tion. My  name  requires  me  to  die  rather  than  beg  — 
Do  not  fear,  madame,  I  am  rich  enough  to-day  ;  I 
possess  all  that  I  need  of  earth.'  I  said  this  observing 
that  her  face  assumed  the  cold  expression  with  which 
people  listen  to  the  demands  of  a  visitor  asking  money 
for  a  charity.  '  Do  you  remember  the  day  you  went  to 
the  Gymnase  without  me,  not  expecting  to  see  me 
there?'  She  made  a  sign  of  assent.  4 1  had  spent  my 
last  penny  to  take  you.  Do  you  remember  our  walk  in 
the  Jardin  des  Plantes  ?  the  coach  which  I  hired  cost 
my  whole  substance.'  Then  I  told  her  my  sacrifices,  I 
pictured  my  life,  not  as  I  am  telling  it  to  you  now  in 
the  intoxication  of  wine,  but  in  the  noble  intoxication 
of  the  heart.  My^  passion  overflowed  in  ardent  lan- 
guage, in  flashes  of  feeling,  since  forgotten  and  which 
neither  art  nor  memorj-  could  ever  reproduce.  It  was 
not  the  cold  narration  of  a  despised  lover  ;  my  love,  in 
all  the  strength  and  beauty  of  its  hope,  inspired  the 
words  which  pleaded  for  life  with  the  cry  of  a  lacerated 
soul  ;  my  tones  were  those  of  the  dying  on  a  battle-field 
offering  their  last  prayer  — 

"  She  wept.  I  stopped  short.  Good  God  !  her  tears 
came  from  the  paltry  emotion  we  buy  at  a  theatre  for  a 
few  francs  ;  my  success  was  that  of  a  good  actor  ! 


ISO 


The  Magic  Skin, 


"  4  If  I  had  known/  she  said. 

M  4  Say  no  more/  I  exclaimed  ;  4  at  this  moment  I  love 
you  enough  to  kill  you  —  '  She  tried  to  seize  the  bell- 
rope.  I  laughed  aloud.  4  Call  no  one  !  '  I  cried  ;  c  I  will 
leave  you  to  live  out  your  days  in  peace.  It  would  be 
a  paltry  form  of  hatred  to  kill  you.  Fear  nothing,  I 
have  passed  a  whole  night  standing  at  the  foot  of  your 
bed  —  ' 

"'Monsieur!  'she  said,  blushing;  but  after  that 
first  impulse  of  the  modesty  which  all  women  pos- 
sess, even  the  most  callous,  she  threw  a  contemptuous 
glance  upon  me  and  said,  '  You  must  have  found  it 
very  cold.' 

"'Do  you  think,  madame,  that  your  beauty  is  so 
precious  to  me?'  I  answered,  guessing  the  thoughts 
that  moved  her.  J  Your  face  is  to  me  the  promise  of 
a  soul  more  beautiful  than  your  personal  beaut}'.  Ah, 
madame,  the  men  who  only  see  a  woman  in  woman- 
hood can  buy  odalisques  worthy  of  the  sultan's  harem, 
and  be  happy  at  a  low  price.  But  I  have  been  ambi- 
tious ;  I  wanted  to  live  heart  to  heart  with  you  who 
have  no  heart,  —  I  know  it  now.  If  ever  you  belong  to 
a  man  I  will  kill  him.  But  no,  you  might  love  him, 
and  his  death  would  grieve  you —  Oh,  how  I  suffer  ! 9 
I  cried. 

44  1  If  a  promise  can  console  you.'  she  said,  laughing, 
4 1  can  assure  you  that  I  shall  belong  to  no  man.' 

44  4  Then,'  I  said,  interrupting  her,  'you  insult  God, 
and  you  will  be  punished.  Some  da}',  lying  on  that 
sofa,  unable  to  bear  either  light  or  noise,  condemned 
to  live  as  it  were  in  a  tomb,  you  will  suffer  untold 
agony.    When  you  seek  the  reason  of  your  slow,  relent- 


The  Magie  Skin. 


181 


less  pains  remember  the  sufferings  you  have  so  lavishly 
dealt  oui  to  others.  You  have  sown  curses,  and  they 
will  return  to  you  in  hatred.  We  who  have  suffered 
are  the  true  judges,  the  executioners  of  a  justice  which 
governs  here  below,  trampling  underfoot  that  of  men, 
but  lower  than  that  of  God.' 

"  4  Ah  !  '  she  said,  laughing,  'I  am  guilty  indeed  for 
not  loving  you!  Is  it  my  fault?  No,  I  do  not  love 
you  ;  you  are  a  man,  and  that  is  enough  for  me.  I  am 
happy  in  being  alone  ;  why  should  I  change  my  life  — 
call  it  selfish  if  you  will  —  for  the  caprices  of  a  master  ? 
Marriage  is  a  sacrament,  in  virtue  of  which  we  ob- 
tain nothing  but  a  communion  of  sorrows.  Besides, 
children  annoy  me.  Did  I  not  loyally  warn  you  of  my 
nature  ?  Why  are  you  not  content  with  m 3'  friendship  ? 
I  would  gladly  soothe  the  suffering  I  have  unwittingly 
caused  you  by  not  guessing  the  cost  to  you  of  your  poor 
little  francs  ;  I  appreciate  your  sacrifices  ;  but  only  love 
can  pay  for  such  devotion,  such  delicate  attentions, 
and  I  love  you  so  little  that  this  scene  affects  me 
disagreeably.' 

4 6  6 1  feel  how  ridiculous  I  have  made  myself,  forgive 
me,'  I  said  gently  ;  4 1  love  you  enough  to  listen  with 
delight  to  the  cruel  words  you  are  saying  to  me.  Oh, 
would  that  I  could  write  my  love  in  my  heart's  blood.' 

"  4  All  men  use  those  classic  phrases  on  such  occa- 
sions,' she  said,  still  laughing.  'But  it  seems  to  be 
rather  difficult  to  die  at  a  woman's  feet,  for  I  meet  the 
dead  men  everywhere.  It  is  midnight;  allow  me  to 
retire.' 

44  '  And  in  two  hours  you  will  exclaim,  as  you  did  the 
night  before  last,  44  My  God/"  '  I  said  to  her. 


182 


The  Magic  Skin. 


Night  before  last!'  she  cried.  'True,  I  was 
thinking  of  my  broker  ;  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  him  to 
sell  out  certain  stocks,  and  in  the  course  of  the  day  they 
had  gone  down.' 

"I  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  flashed  with  rage. 
Ah!  sometimes  a  crime  may  be  a  poem, — I  felt  it. 
Familiar  with  such  passionate  adjurations,  she  had 
already  forgotten  my  words  and  prayers. 

"  s  Shall  you  marry  a  peer  of  France  ?  '  I  asked  coldly. 

"  6  Perhaps  ;  if  he  is  a  duke.' 

"  I  took  my  hat  and  bowed  to  her. 

"  'Permit  me  to  accompany  3-ou  to  my  outer  door/ 
she  said,  with  piercing  satire  in  her  tone  and  gestures 
and  in  the  attitude  of  her  head. 

"  6  Madame!  ' 

1 £  '  Monsieur  ?  ' 

"  '  Never  will  I  see  you  again.' 

"  4 1  hope  not/  she  answered,  bowing  her  head  with 
an  insolent  expression. 

"  ;  You  wish  to  be  â  duchess,'  I  resumed,  driven  on- 
ward by  a  sort  of  frenzy  which  her  gesture  roused  in 
my  heart.  '  You  crave  titles  and  honors.  Well  then, 
let  me  love  you  ;  tell  my  pen  to  speak,  my  voice 
to  sound  for  you  alone  ;  be  the  mainspring  of  my  life, 
my  star  !  and  take  me  for  a  husband  when  I  am  min- 
ister and  peer  of  France  and  duke.  I  can  be  all,  all,  if 
you  but  will  it.' 

' 1  '  You  certainly  employed  your  time  well  in  a  law- 
yer's office,'  she  said,  smiling  ;  4  your  plea  has  plenty 
of  ardor.' 

"  4  To  you  the  present/  I  cried,  1  to  me  the  future. 
I  lose  a  woman,  you  lose  fame  and  a  family.    Time  is 


The  Magic  Skin. 


big  with  vengeance  ;  it  will  bring  you  loss  of  beauty 
and  ajsolitary  death,  but  to  me  glory  !  ' 

"  '  Thank  you  for  that  finale  !  '  she  said,  smothering 
a  yawn,  and  showing  by  her  attitude  the  desire  that  I 
should  leave  her  sight. 

"  The  words  silenced  me.  I  threw  my  hatred  in  one 
look  upon  her  and  fled  the  house. 

"  What  was  now  before  me?  Either  I  must  forget 
Fedora,  cure  my  madness,  return  to  my  studious  solitude, 
or  die.  I  compelled  myself  to  toil  ;  I  resolved  to  finish 
the  works  in  my  brain.  For  fifteen  da}Ts  I  never  left 
my  room,  and  spent  both  days  and  nights  in  study.  In 
spite  of  my  courage  and  the  inspirations  of  despair,  I 
worked  with  difficulty  and  by  fits  and  starts.  The 
muse  had  fled.  I  could  not  drive  away  the  brilliant 
and  mocking  phantom  of  Fedora.  Behind  each  thought 
of  my  mind  lurked  another  sickly  thought,  a  gnawing 
desire,  terrible  as  remorse.  I  imitated  the  anchorites 
of  the  Thebaid.  If  I  did  not  pray  like  them,  like  them 
I  lived  in  a  desert.  I  delved  into  my  soul,  as  they 
among  the  rocks  ;  and  I  would  gladly  have  worn  spikes 
about  my  loins,  piercing  the  flesh  with  every  point,  could 
I  have  conquered  my  mental  anguish  by  physical  pain. 

"  One  evening  Pauline  came  into  my  room.  6  You 
are  killing  yourself  !  '  she  said  ;  (  you  ought  to  go  out 
and  see  your  friends.' 

"  6  Ah,  Pauline,  your  prediction  is  coming  true! 
Fedora  kills  me  ;  I  wish  to  die.  I  cannot  bear  my 
life  any  longer.' 

"  '  Is  there  but  one  woman  in  the  world?  '  she  said, 
smiling.  6  Why  do  you  put  such  infinite  troubles  into 
this  short  life?' 


184 


The  Magic  Skin. 


44  I  looked  at  her  stupidly.  She  left  me;  I  did  not 
even  notice  that  she  did  so.  I  had  heard  her  voice 
without  understanding  the  meaning  of  her  words.  Be- 
fore long  I  was  obliged  to  leave  the  house  to  carry  the 
manuscript  of  the  memoirs  to  my  literary  employer. 
Sunken  in  my  own  thoughts,  I  did  not  perceive  how 
it  was  that  I  lived  without  money.  I  was  only  con- 
scious that  the  four  hundred  and  fifty  francs  now  due 
me  would  suffice  to  pay  my  debts.  I  went  to  get  them, 
and  met  Rastignac,  who  thought  me  changed  and 
emaciated.  1  What  hospital  are  you  just  out  of?  '  he 
cried. 

"  4  That  woman  is  killing  me!'  I  answered.  6 1  can 
neither  despise  her  nor  forget  her.' 

44  4  Better  kill  her!'  he  answered,  laughing;  'and 
then  perhaps  you  won't  think  of  her  again.' 

"'I  have  thought  of  it/  I  said.  'But  though  at 
times  I  comfort  my  soul  with  the  thought  of  crime,  I 
know  I  am  unable  to  commit  it.  Fedora  is  a  glorious 
monster,  who  would  pray  for  mercy,  and  I  am  no 
Othello.' 

6  4  6  She  is  like  every  other  woman  whom  we  cannot 
get/  said  Rastignac,  interrupting  me. 

u  '  I  am  mad  !  '  I  cried  ;  4  sometimes  I  feel  the  mad- 
ness surging  in  my  brain.  My  thoughts  are  like  phan- 
toms ;  they  dance  about  me,  but  I  cannot  seize  them. 
I  prefer  death  to  such  a  life  as  this.  I  seek  a  way  — 
the  best  way  —  to  end  the  struggle.  It  is  no  longer  a 
question  of  the  actual,  living,  breathing  Fedora,  the 
Fedora  of  the  faubourg  Saint-Honoré,  but  of  my  Fedora, 
of  her  who  is  there/  I  cried,  striking  my  brow.  4  What 
think  you  of  opium?' — 4  Bah  !  horrid  suffering!'  an- 


The  Magic  Shin. 


185 


swered  Rastignac.  — 6  Charcoal  ?  '  —  <  Vulgar  !  '  —  6  The 
Seine  ?  '  —  '  Those  slabs  at  the  Morgue  are  filthy.'  —  '  A 
pistol-shot?  1  —  6  If  it  misses,  you  're  disfigured  for  life. 
Listen  to  me/  he  continued  ;  'like  all  other  young  men, 
I  have  reflected  about  suicide.  Which  of  us  has  not 
killed  himself  two  or  three  times  before  he  was  thirty? 
I  see  no  better  way  than  to  use  up  life  by  excesses. 
Plunge  into  the  deepest  dissipation,  and  either  you  or 
your  passion  will  perish.  Intemperance,  my  dear  fellow, 
is  the  king  of  deaths  ;  does  n't  it  command  apoplexy, 
and  is  n't  apoplexy  a  pistol-shot  that  never  misses  ? 
The  orgies  of  physical  enjoyment  are  the  small  change 
of  opium.  Excesses  that  force  us  to  drink  madly  are 
a  mortal  challenge  to  life.  The  Duke  of  Clarence's 
butt  of  malmsey  tastes  better  than  Seine  mud.  Each 
time  we  go  under  the  table  is  n't  it  the  same  as  char- 
coal in  little  doses,  —  a  slow  suffocation  ?  If  the 
watchman  picks  us  up  in  the  street  and  lays  us  on 
the  cold  beds  at  the  guard-house,  don't  we  enjoy  all 
the  pleasures  of  the  Morgue,  minus  the  swollen  stom- 
achs, —  blue,  green,  and  every  color,  —  and  plus  a 
knowledge  of  the  crisis?  Ah,'  he  cried,  4  my  kind  of 
suicide  is  n't  the  vulgar  death  of  a  bankrupt  grocer  ! 
Such  men  have  brought  the  river  into  disrepute  ;  they 
fling  themselves  into  it  to  touch  the  hearts  of  their 
creditors.  In  your  place,  I  should  try  to  die  with  ele- 
gance. If  you  want  to  create  a  new  style  of  death  by 
fighting  this  sort  of  duel  with  life,  I  '11  go  into  it  with 
you.  I  am  annoyed  and  disappointed.  That  Alsatian 
I  was  to  marry  has  six  toes  on  her  left  foot.  I  could  n't 
live  with  a  woman  who  has  a  foot  with  six  toes  ;  people 
would  find  it  out,  and  I  should  be  ridiculous.  Besides, 


186 


The  Magic  Skin. 


it  seems  she  has  only  eighteen  thousand  francs  a  year, 
—  the  fortune  diminishes  and  the  toes  increase  ;  the 
devil  take  them  !  Let  us  lead  this  wild  life,  and  happi- 
ness may  come  by  the  way.' 

"  Rastignac's  vehemence  carried  me  off  my  feet. 
The  plan  had  too  many  seductions  ;  it  awakened  too 
many  hopes.  The  coloring  of  the  picture  was  too  po- 
etic not  to  fascinate  a  poet. 

"  6  But  the  money?  '  I  said. 

"  '  Have  n't  you  got  that  four  hundred  and  fifty 
francs  ?  ' 

"  'Yes;  but  I  owe  them  to  my  tailor  and  to  my 
landlady.' 

"  '  Pay  your  tailor?  You'll  never  be  anything  in 
this  world,  —  not  even  a  minister.' 

"  4  But  what  could  we  do  with  such  a  beggarly 
sum?' 

"'Play  it,'  he  answered.  I  shuddered.  cAh,'  he 
added,  observing  my  reluctance.  '  You  say  you  are 
willing  to  plunge  into  what  I  call  the  Dissipational 
System,  and  yet  you  are  afraid  of  a  green  table- 
cloth !  ' 

"  '  Hear  me/  I  said  ;  '  I  promised  my  father  never 
to  set  foot  in  a  gambling-house.  That  promise  is  not 
only  sacred  to  me,  but  I  have  myself  an  invincible 
horror  of  such  places.  Take  my  money  and  go  alone. 
While  you  are  playing  it  I  will  put  my  affairs  in  order 
and  then  go  to  }Tour  rooms  and  wait  for  you.' 

"  That,  nry  dear  Emile,  is  the  tale  of  my  ruin.  Let 
a  young  man  meet  with  a  woman  who  does  not  love 
him,  or  a  woman  who  loves  him  too  well  and  his  life  is 
forever  spoiled.    Happiness  exhausts  our  vigor,  un- 


The  Magic  Shin. 


187 


happiness  engulfs  our  virtue.  I  re-entered  the  Hôtel 
Saint-Quentin,  and  gazed  round  the  attic-room  where 
I  had  lived  the  chaste  life  of  a  scholar,  —  a  life  that 
might  perhaps  have  been  long  and  honorable,  and 
which  I  ought  never  to  have  quitted  for  the  passionate 
existence  which  had  dragged  me  down  to  the  abyss. 
Pauline  found  me  in  an  attitude  of  despair. 

"  6  What  is  the  matter?  '  she  asked. 

44  I  rose  quietly  and  counted  out  the  money  which  I 
owed  to  her  mother,  adding  the  rent  of  my  room  for 
the  coming  six  months.  She  watched  me  in  terror. 
4 1  am  going  to  leave  you,  dear  Pauline.'  4  I  thought 
so,'  she  cried.  'Hear  me,  my  child,  I  do  not  say  that 
I  shall  not  return  ;  keep  my  cell  ready  for  six  months  ; 
if  I  am  not  back  by  the  15th  of  November  you  are  to 
inherit  all.  This  sealed  manuscript,'  I  continued,  show- 
ing her  a  package,  4  is  a  co^j  of  my  great  work  on  the 
Will  which  you  are  to  deposit  in  the  Bibliothèque  du 
Roi.  As  to  all  else  you  are  to  do  what  you  like 
with  it.' 

"She  gave  me  a  look  which  weighed  heavily  on  my 
heart.    Pauline  stood  there  as  my  living  conscience. 

"  4  Shall  I  have  no  more  lessons?  ■  she  said,  pointing 
to  the  piano.    I  did  not  answer. 

44  4  Will  you  write  to  me?  ' 

44  4  Adieu,  Pauline.'  I  drew  her  gently  to  me  ;  then 
on  that  brow  of  love,  pure  as  the  snow  before  it  touches 
earth,  I  laid  the  kiss  of  a  brother,  of  an  old  man.  She 
left  me  quickly.  I  did  not  wish  to  see  Madame  Gan- 
din. I  put  my  key  in  its  usual  place  and  went  away. 
As  I  passed  through  the  rue  de  Cluny  I  heard  the 
light  step  of  a  woman  behind  me. 


188 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  4 1  have  worked  you  this  purse  ;  surety  you  will  not 
refuse  it?'  said  Pauline.  By  the  dim  light  of  a  street 
lantern  I  saw  a  tear  in  her  eye,  and  I  sighed.  Driven 
perhaps  by  the  same  thought  we  hastened  to  separate, 
like  persons  fleeing  from  the  plague. 

"  The  life  of  dissipation  to  which  I  now  devoted  my- 
self was  curiously  represented  by  the  room  where  I 
awaited  Eastignac's  return  with  stern  indifference.  On 
the  centre  of  the  mantle-shelf  stood  a  clock  surmounted 
by  a  Venus  sitting  on  a  tortoise,  in  the  angle  of  whose 
arm  was  a  half-smoked  cigar.  Elegant  pieces  of  furni- 
ture, love-gifts  no  doubt,  stood  here  and  there.  Shabby 
slippers  were  tossed  upon  a  silken  sofa.  The  com- 
fortable arm-chair  in  which  I  sat  bore  as  many  scars 
as  an  old  soldier;  it  held  out  its  ragged  arms,  and 
exhibited  on  its  back  the  incrusted  pomades  and  hair- 
oils  of  the  heads  of  friends.  Opulence  and  poverty 
were  bluntly  mated  on  the  bed,  on  the  walls,  every- 
where. You  might  have  thought  it  a  Neapolitan  pal- 
ace inhabited  by  lazzaroni.  It  was  in  fact  the  room  of 
a  gambler  or  a  reprobate,  whose  luxury  is  all  personal, 
who  lives  by  sensations  and  cares  nothing  for  the  de- 
cency and  fitness  of  things.  The  picture  is  not  with- 
out its  artistic  side.  Life  leaps  up  in  these  tawdry  rags 
and  spangles,  unexpected,  incomplete  as  it  is  in  reality, 
but  electrifying,  fantastic,  eager,  as  in  a  halt  where  the 
marauder  pillages  all  he  wants.  A  volume  of  Byron, 
with  half  its  pages  torn  out,  served  to  light  the  few 
fagots  of  the  young  man  who  risks  a  thousand  francs  at 
play  and  has  not  the  wherewithal  to  pay  for  a  log  of 
wood,  who  drives  his  tilbur}^,  but  does  not  own  a  decent 
shirt.   Tomorrow,  perhaps,  a  countess,  or  an  actress,  or 


The  Magic  Skin.  189 

a  lucky  game  of  écarté,  will  give  him  the  wardrobe  of  a 
king.  ""Here  a  wax-candle  is  stuck  in  a  tin  match-box  ; 
there  lies  the  portrait  of  some  woman  deprived  of  its 
chased  gold  frame.  How  can  a  young  man  eager  for 
emotions  renounce  the  delights  of  a  life  so  rich  in  con- 
trasts, and  which  gives  him  the  pleasures  of  war  in  times 
of  peace  ?  I  was  well-nigh  asleep  when  Rastignac  kicked 
open  the  door  and  rushed  in,  crying,  — 

É  ' 6  Victory  !  we  can  die  at  our  ease  !  ' 

"  He  showed  me  his  hat  full  of  gold,  which  he  placed  on 
the  table,  and  we  danced  round  it  like  two  cannibals  with 
a  prey  to  be  eaten,  —  howling,  stamping,  skipping,  strik- 
ing blows  at  each  other  with  our  fists  that  would  have  stag- 
gered a  rhinoceros,  and  singing  praises  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  world  held  for  us  within  the  compass  of  that  hat. 

"  c  Twenty-seven  thousand  francs  !  '  cried  Rastignac, 
adding  some  bank-bills  to  the  heap  of  gold  ;  É  for  most 
people  that  is  enough  to  live  on,  but  will  it  suffice  to  kill 
you  and  me  ?  ' 

u  4  Yes,  yes,  we  will  die  in  a  bath  of  gold.  Hurrah  !  ' 
and  we  capered  again. 

u  We  divided  our  gains,  like  heirs-at-law,  coin  by  coin, 
beginning  with  the  double  napoleons,  and  coming  down 
by  degrees  to  the  lesser  pieces,  spinning  out  our  joy  as 
we  cried  alternately,  '  Yours  !  ' c  Mine  !  ' '  Mine  !  ' 4  Yours  !  • 

"  '  We  shall  never  be  able  to  sleep,'  cried  Rastignac. 
'  Joseph,  get  us  some  punch.'  He  flung  a  heap  of  gold 
to  his  faithful  servant.  4  Here 's  your  share/  he  said  ; 
6  bury  yourself  if  you  want  to.' 

"  The  next  day  I  bought  furniture  from  Lesage  and 
hired  the  apartment  where  you  knew  me  last,  in  the 
rue  Taitbout,  and  got  the  best  upholsterer  in  Paris  to 


190 


The  Magic  Skin. 


decorate  it.  I  purchased  horses  ;  I  flung  myself  into  a 
whirlpool  of  pleasures  that  were  hollow  and  real  both. 
I  gambled,  I  won  and  lost  enormous  sums,  but  always 
in  private  houses,  — never  in  gambling-dens,  for  which 
I  still  retained  my  early  and  pious  horror.  Little  by 
little  I  made  acquaintances.  I  owed  their  intimacy  to 
quarrels  or  to  that  facile  confidence  with  which  we  be- 
tray our  secrets  in  degrading  company  ;  it  is,  perhaps, 
by  their  vices  that  men  hang  best  together.  I  circulated 
a  few  literary  compositions  which  gained  me  credit. 
The  great  men  of  commercial  literature,  seeing  that  I  was 
not  a  rival  to  be  feared,  praised  me,  — less,  no  doubt,  for 
my  personal  merits  than  to  annoy  their  own  class.  I 
became  a  viveur  (to  employ  the  picturesque  word  we 
have  invented  for  our  excesses)  ;  I  made  it  a  matter  of 
pride  to  kill  myself  quickly,  to  surpass  my  gayest  com- 
panions in  ardor  and  vigor.  I  was  always  fresh  and 
elegant  ;  I  passed  for  being  witty.  Nothing  about  me 
betrayed  the  awful  existence  which  makes  a  man  a 
funnel,  a  digesting  apparatus,  a  cheval  de  luxe. 

uBut  soon  Excess  appeared  before  me  in  all  the 
majesty  of  its  horror  ;  I  comprehended  it.  Surely  the 
prudent  and  orderly  men  who  ticket  the  bottles  in  their 
cellars  and  leave  them  to  their  heirs  have  no  conception 
of  the  theory  of  this  broad  life,  nor  of  its  normal  condi- 
tion. Can  you  teach  the  poetry  of  it  to  provincials,  to 
whom  tea  and  opium,  so  prodigal  of  delights,  are  only 
two  medicines?  Even  in  Paris,  the  capital  of  thought, 
we  find  crude  sybarites,  men  unable  to  sustain  an  excess 
of  pleasure,  who  return  home  wearied  from  a  banquet, 
like  those  good  shopkeepers  who  sit  up  to  hear  an  opera 
of  Rossini  and  complain  of  the  music.    They  renounce 


The  Magic  Skin.  191 


the  life  at  once,  just  as  the  sober  man  declines  to  eat  a 
second  -Ruffec  patty  because  the  first  gave  him  an  indi- 
gestion. Excess  is  certainly  an  art  like  that  of  poetry, 
and  needs  strong  natures.  Before  a  man  can  grasp  its 
mysteries,  or  taste  its  beauties  he  must,  to  some  extent, 
study  it  conscientiously.  Like  all  sciences,  it  is  in  the 
beginning  repellant  and  prickly.  Immense  obstacles 
surround  the  high  pleasures  of  man,  —  not  his  lesser 
enjoyment  of  details,  but  the  broad  system  which  trains 
into  a  habit  his  choicest  sensations,  gathers  them  up, 
fructifies  them  into  a  dramatic  life  within  his  life,  and 
thus  necessitates  a  vast  and  hurried  dissipation  of  his 
forces.  War,  Power,  Art  are  corruptions  within  human 
reach  as  powerful  as  Excess,  and  all  are  difficult  of 
approach.  But  once  a  man  has  mounted  the  breach  of 
these  great  mysteries,  has  he  not  reached  another  world? 
Generals,  statesmen,  artists  are  all,  more  or  less,  driven 
to  excesses,  by  the  need  of  giving  violent  emotions  to 
natures  so  far  out  of  the  common  as  theirs.  After  all, 
war  is  an  Excess  of  slaughter,  just  as  politics  are  a  de- 
bauch of  selfish  interests.  All  excesses  are  related. 
These  social  monsters  have  the  alluring  power  of 
abysses  ;  they  draw  us  to  them  as  Saint  Helena  beck- 
oned Napoleon  from  afar  ;  they  induce  vertigos,  they 
fascinate,  and  we  seek  to  see  to  their  depths,  we  know 
not  why.  The  secret  of  the  infinite  may  be  below  that 
precipice  ;  perhaps  in  that  abyss  there  is  some  flattering 
discovery  for  man  ;  is  he  not  interested  first  and  always 
in  his  own  being?  In  contrast  with  the  paradise  of  his 
studious  hour,  and  the  bliss  of  his  faculties  of  concep- 
tion, the  weary  artist  seeks,  like  God,  a  seventh-day's 
rest,  or,  like  the  Devil,  the  joys  of  hell,  to  balance  the 


192 


The  Magic  Skin. 


labor  of  the  mind  with  the  labor  of  the  senses.  The  re- 
laxation of  Lord  Byron  could  never  be  the  chattering 
whist  which  delights  the  small  capitalist  ;  poet,  he 
wanted  Greece  to  play  against  a  Sultan.  In  war,  man 
becomes  an  exterminating  angel,  a  species  of  execu- 
tioner, gigantic  in  purpose.  Surely,  some  extraordinary 
spell  must  be  upon  us  before  we  seek  these  awful  emo- 
tions, these  destroyers  of  our  frail  bodies,  which  sur- 
round our  passions  like  a  thorny  hedge.  The  smoker 
writhes  convulsively  and  suffers  agony  for  the  abuse  of 
tobacco,  but  it  has  led  him  into  regions  of  delightful 
holiday  ?  Has  Europe  ever  wiped  her  feet  of  the  blood 
of  war  before  she  stepped  into  it  again  ?  Have  masses 
of  men  their  times  of  drunkenness  as  nature  herself  the 
crises  of  love  ?  To  the  private  individual,  the  Mirabeau 
who  vegetates  in  times  of  peace  but  dreams  of  whirl- 
winds, Excess  means  much  ;  it  means  a  grasp  on  life,  a 
duel  with  an  unknown  power,  with  a  dragon.  The  mon- 
ster is  at  first  abhorrent,  terrifying  ;  you  must  seize  him 
by  the  horns,  and  the  fatigue  is  dreadful  ;  nature  may 
have  given  you  a  slow  and  narrow  stomach  ;  you  con- 
quer it,  y  ou  enlarge  it  ;  you  learn  how  to  take  your  wine, 
you  grow  friendly  with  intoxication,  you  pass  nights 
without  sleep,  and  soon  you  have  the  temperament  of  a 
colonel  of  cuirassiers  ;  }^ou  have  created  yourself  anew. 

"  When  a  man  has  thus  metamorphosed  himself,  when 
the  neophyte,  grown  to  be  an  old  soldier,  has  trained 
his  soul  to  the  artillery  and  his  legs  to  the  march,  with- 
out as  yet  falling  a  victim  to  the  dragon  (though  he 
knows  not  which  of  the  two  is  master) ,  they  struggle 
and  roll  together,  alternately  vanquished  and  vanquish- 
ing, in  a  sphere  where  all  is  mystical,  where  the  suf- 


The  Magic  Skin. 


193 


ferings  of  the  soul  are  put  to  sleep,  and  nothing  lives 
but  the- ghosts  of  ideas.  The  awful  struggle  has  now 
become  a  necessity.  Like  the  fabulous  personages  of 
many  legends,  who  sell  their  soul  to  the  Devil  to  ob- 
tain the  power  of  doing  evil,  the  dissipated  man  has 
played  his  death  against  the  joys  of  life,  —  those  fruit- 
ful and  abounding  joys  !  Existence,  instead  of  flowing 
onward  between  its  peaceful  and  monotonous  banks, 
behind  a  counter  or  in  an  office,  boils  and  foams  and 
rushes  like  a  torrent.  Excess  is  to  the  bod}T  what  mys- 
tical pleasures  are  to  the  soul.  Intoxication  plunges 
the  mind  into  dreams  whose  phantasmagoria  are  as 
curious  as  those  of  ecstasy  ;  it  bestows  hours  of  en- 
chantment equal  to  the  fancies  of  a  young  girl,  delight- 
ful conversations  with  friends,  words  that  reveal  a 
lifetime,  joys  that  are  frank  and  without  reserva- 
tion, journeys  without  fatigue,  poems  evolving  in  a 
sentence. 

u  The  brutal  gratification  of  the  beast,  to  the  depths 
of  which  science  descends  to  seek  a  soul,  is  succeeded 
by  enchanting  torpors  for  which  men  sigh  when  worn 
and  wearied  out  by  intellect.  The}7  feel  the  need  of 
absolute  repose.  Excess  to  them  is  the  tax  which 
genius  pays  to  evil.  Observe  the  world's  great  men  ; 
if  they  pursue  no  pleasure  to  excess,  nature  has  cre- 
ated them  weaklings.  Some  power,  be  it  a  jeering  or 
a  jealous  power,  vitiates  their  soul  or  their  body  and 
neutralizes  the  efforts  of  their  genius.  During  these 
bacchanal  hours  men  and  things  appear  before  us 
clothed  with  the  liver}'  of  our  own  estate.  Kings  of 
creation,  we  transform  created  things  at  will.  Athwart 
this  perpetual  delirium  Play  pours  its  molten  lead  into 

13 


194 


The  Magic  Skin. 


our  veins.  The  day  comes  when  we  belong  to  the 
monster  ;  we  have  then  a  desperate  awaking  ;  impo- 
tence is  seated  at  our  bedside  ;  aged  warriors,  con- 
sumption is  waiting  to  devour  us  ;  statesmen,  death 
hangs  by  the  thread  of  an  aneurism  in  our  heart  ;  for 
myself,  as  I  well  know,  my  lungs  will  sa}r  to  me,  as 
once  they  said  to  Raphael  Urbino,  killed  by  excess  of 
love,  6  Thy  time  has  come,  depart.' 

"  That  is  my  life.  I  came  too  early  or  too  late  into 
the  world  ;  perhaps  my  powers  might  have  been  dan- 
gerous had  I  not  thus  enfeebled  them.  The  universe 
was  saved  from  Alexander  by  the  cup  of  Hercules  at 
the  close  of  an  orgy.  There  are  souls  betrayed  who 
must  have  heaven  or  hell  —  the  feasts  of  Bacchus  or  the 
Hospice  of  Saint-Bernard.  To-night  I  had  no  heart  to 
rebuke  these  creatures,"  he  went  on,  pointing  to 
Euphrasia  and  Aquilina.  "  Are  they  not  the  embodi- 
ment of  my  own  history,  the  image  of  my  life  ?  Could 
I  accuse  them  ?  no,  for  they  seem  to  me  nry  judges. 

"  In  the  course  of  this  living  poem,  in  the  midst  of 
this  bewildering  malady,  I  came  to  two  crises  that  were 
fruitful  of  bitter  pains.  A  few  nights  after  I  had  flung 
m}Tself  like  Sardanapalus  on  my  pyre,  I  met  Fedora  in 
the  portico  of  the  opera-house.  We  were  waiting  for 
our  carriages.  '  Ah  !  so  I  meet  you  in  the  land  of  the 
living,'  was  the  meaning  of  her  smile  and  the  theme  of 
the  low  words  she  doubtless  said  to  her  companion  as 
she  related  my  story  and  judged  my  love  by  the  com- 
monplace standards  of  her  own  mind,  congratulating 
herself  perhaps  for  her  mistaken  perceptions.  Oh,  to 
be  dying  for  her,  to  adore  her  still,  to  see  but  her  in  the 
midst  of  my  excesses,  and  know  myself  the  object  of 


The  Magic  Skin.  195 


her  laughter  !  Would  that  I  could  rend  my  breast,  tear 
out  that  fatal  love,  and  fling  it  at  her  feet  ! 

"  Soon  my  money  was  exhausted;  but  three  years' 
sobriety  in  a  garret  had  brought  me  robust  health,  and 
when  again  I  found  myself  without  a  penny  it  was  still 
perfect.  Continuing  to  pursue  death,  I  signed  bills  of 
exchange  for  short  dates,  and  the  da}'  of  meeting  them 
drew  near.  Dreadful  emotions  !  and  yet  how  young 
hearts  live  on  them.  I  was  not  meant  to  grow  palsied 
as  yet  ;  my  soul  was  young  and  eager  and  fresh.  My 
first  debt  called  back  my  virtues,  and  they  came  with 
lagging  feet  as  though  disconsolate  ;  but  soon  I  com- 
promised, as  we  do  with  some  old  aunt  wTho  begins 
by  scolding  us,  and  ends  by  giving  money  and  tears. 
Imagination,  sterner  than  virtue,  showed  me  my  name 
upon  those  bills  travelling  from  place  to  place  through 
Europe.  '  Our  name  is  ourself,' says  Eusèbe  Salverte. 
Those  banking  agents,  the  embodiment  of  commercial 
vengeance,  dressed  in  gray,  wearing  the  livery  of  their 
master  and  a  silver  shield,  whom  I  had  formerly  looked 
at  with  indifference  as  they  passed  along  the  streets  of 
Paris,  I  now  hated  by  anticipation.  Before  long  some 
one  of  them  would  surely  come  and  ask  me  for  pay- 
ment of  the  eleven  bills  of  exchange  that  I  had  signed. 
Those  bills  amounted  to  three  thousand  francs,  and  I 
had  not  a  penny.  I  saw  in  my  mind's  eye  the  man, 
with  a  dull  face  indifferent  to  all  despair,  even  that  of 
death,  standing  before  me  like  the  executioner  who 
says  to  the  criminal,  4  It  is  half-past  three  o'clock.' 
That  man  would  have  the  right  to  seize  me,  to  post  mj* 
name,  to  soil  it,  to  make  jests  upon  it.  Debt  !  To 
owe  money  !  can  a  man  belong  to  himself  if  he  owes  to 


196 


The  Magic  Skin. 


other  men?  Might  they  not  justly  ask  me  to  give  ac- 
count of  my  life?  Why  had  I  eaten  puddings  à  la 
Chipolata,  why  did  I  drink  iced  wines,  why  did  I  sleep, 
walk,  think,  amuse  îx^self  without  paying  them?  In 
the  middle  of  a  poem,  in  the  grasp  of  an  idea,  sur- 
rounded by  friends,  by  delights,  by  merriment,  I  might 
see  a  man  in  a  brown  coat,  holding  a  shabby  hat  in  his 
hand,  approach  me.  That  man  was  my  Debt,  my  bill 
of  exchange,  a  spectre  that  blighted  1113^  joy,  forced  me 
to  leave  the  table  to  follow  him,  wrenched  from  me  my 
gayety,  my  mistress,  m}T  all,  even  my  bed. 

u  Remorse  is  more  tolerant,  it  drives  us  neither  to 
the  streets  nor  to  Sainte-Pélagie,  —  it  spares  us  at  least 
that  execrable  sink  of  vice,  —  it  sends  us  onhT  to  the 
scaffold  which  ennobles  us  ;  for  at  the  moment  of  our 
execution  the  whole  community  believes  us  innocent. 
But  short  of  that,  society  allows  no  virtue  to  the  spend- 
thrift who  can  spend  no  more.  I  dreamed  of  those 
debts  on  two  legs,  dressed  in  green  cloth,  wearing  blue 
spectacles  and  carrying  faded  umbrellas  ;  those  debts 
incarnate,  which  in  some  joyous  moment  we  come  face  to 
face  with  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  —  creatures  who  have 
the  horrible  right  to  say  :  4  That  is  Monsieur  de  Valentin  ; 
he  owes  me  money  and  does  not  pay  it  ;  but  I  have  a 
hold  upon  him.'  We  must  bow  to  such  creditors  gra- 
ciously. 'When  will  you  paj^  me?'  they  reply-  And 
then  we  lie  or  implore  some  other  man  for  th%  rnonej'  ; 
we  cringe  before  a  fool  sitting  at  a  desk,  accept  his  cold 
glance,  the  glance  of  a  leech,  more  odious  than  a  blow, 
and  put  up  perforce  with  his  sharp  reckoning  and  his 
crass  ignorance.  A  debt  is  a  work  of  imagination  that 
such  men  can  never  comprehend.    An  impulse  of  the 


The  Magic  Skin. 


197 


soul  often  impels  and  subjugates  a  borrower,  while  no 
great-heartedness  subjugates,  no  generosity  guides  those 
who  live  in  money  and  know  nought  else.  I  felt  a  hatred 
of  money.  Or  again,  the  bill  of  exchange  might  be  meta- 
morphosed into  an  old  man  burdened  with  a  family  he 
was  virtuously  bringing  up.  Or  perhaps  I  owed  that 
money  to  some  living  Greuze,  to  a  paralytic  sur- 
rounded by  children,  to  the  widow  of  a  soldier,  all  of 
whom  held  up  to  me  their  supplicating  hands.  Dread- 
ful creditors,  with  whom  we  must  needs  weep,  and  even 
if  we  pay  the  debt,  we  still  are  bound  to  succor  them. 

"  The  evening  before  the  day  on  which  my  first  bill 
of  exchange  was  to  fall  due,  I  had  gone  to  bed  with 
the  stolid  calmness  of  a  criminal  before  his  execution, 
or  a  man  on  the  eve  of  a  duel  ;  such  persons  are  still 
under  the  influence  of  deceitful  hopes.  But  when  I 
woke  in  the  morning  in  cold  blood,  when  I  felt  my 
soul  in  the  grasp  of  a  banker,  classed  on  an  inventory, 
written  in  red  ink,  then  my  debts  sprang  about  me 
like  grasshoppers  ;  they  were  there  on  my  clock,  in 
my  chairs,  hanging  to  every  article  that  I  liked  best  to 
use.  All  those  dear  material  servants  were  to  fall  a 
prey  to  the  minions  of  the  Châtelet  ;  a  bailiff  would 
take  them  from  me,  and  fling  them  brutally  into  the 
street.  Ah  !  my  remains  still  lived  ;  I  was  not  dead, 
I  was  still  myself.  The  door-bell  rang  in  my  heart  and 
echoed  to  my  head.  It  was  martyrdom  without  a 
heaven  beyond  it.  Yes,  to  a  generous  man  debt  is 
hell,  but  hell  amid  brokers  and  bailiffs.  An  unpaid 
debt  is  a  base  thing  ;  it  is  the  beginning  of  knavery. 
Worse  than  that,  it  is  a  lie  ;  it  foretells  crime,  the 
stocks,  the  scaffold. 


198 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  My  bills  of  exchange  were  protested.  Three  days 
later  I  paid  thein  ;  and  this  was  how  I  did  it.  A  land 
speculator  proposed  that  I  should  sell  him  the  island  I 
possessed  in  the  Loire,  which  contained  nay  mother's 
grave.  I  agreed.  When  signing  the  deeds  before  the 
purchaser's  notary  I  felt  a  cold  air  as  from  a  vault 
pass  over  me.  I  shuddered,  remembering  that  the  same 
chill  dampness  had  seized  me  as  I  stood  by  my  father's 
open  grave.  I  accepted  the  incident  as  an  evil  omen. 
I  fancied  I  heard  my  mother's  voice  and  saw  her  shade  ; 
some  power,  I  knew  not  what,  sounded  my  own  name 
vaguely  in  my  ears  amid  the  ringing  of  bells. 

u  The  price  of  my  island  left  me,  when  all  my  debts 
were  paid,  about  two  thousand  francs.  I  might  now 
have  resumed  the  peaceful  life  of  a  scholar  and  returned 
to  my  garret- chamber  after  experimenting  with  the  life 
of  the  world.  I  could  have  carried  back  to  it  a  mind 
filled  with  vast  observation,  and  a  name  that  was  al- 
ready somewhat  known.  But  Fedora,  —  I  was  still 
her  prey  !  We  had  often  met.  I  made  my  name  tingle 
in  her  ears  by  the  praises  her  astonished  lovers  be- 
stowed on  my  wit,  my  horses,  my  equipages,  my  suc- 
cess. She  continued  cold  and  insensible  to  everything, 
even  to  the  remark,  É  He  is  killing  himself  for  you  ! 9 
made  to  her  by  Eastignac.  I  called  the  whole  world  to 
aid  my  vengeance  ;  but  I  was  not  happy.  Deep  as  T 
had  gone  into  the  slime  of  the  world,  I  had  ever  craved 
more  deeply  still  the  delights  of  mutual  love  ;  that  phan- 
tom I  still  pursued  through  all  the  chances  and  changes 
and  dissipations  of  my  life,  even  to  the  depths  of  my 
excesses.  Alas  !  I  was  deceived  in  every  belief,  I  was 
punished  for  my  benefactions  by  ingratitude,  rewarded 


The  Magic  Skin. 


199 


for  my  wrong-doings  by  delights,  —  a  baleful  philoso- 
phy, but  true  of  the  man  given  over  to  Excess.  Fedora 
had  inoculated  me  with  the  leprosy  of  her  vanity  ! 
Probing  my  soul,  I  found  it  gangrened,  rotten.  The 
devil  had  stamped  his  hoof  upon  my  brow.  I  could 
no  longer  do  without  the  continual  excitements  of  my 
perilous  life,  or  the  hateful  refinements  of  extravagance. 
Had  I  been  rich  as  Croesus,  I  should  still  have  gambled 
and  wasted  my  substance  and  rushed  into  vice.  I  dared 
not  be  alone  with  myself.  I  needed  false  friends,  wine, 
courtesans,  and  good  living  to  take  my  thoughts.  The 
ties  that  bind  a  man  to  the  sense  of  family  were  broken 
in  me  forever.  The  galley-slave  of  pleasure,  I  must 
now  accomplish  my  destiny  of  suicide.  During  the  last 
days  of  my  last  money  I  rushed  nightly  into  incredible 
excesses,  and  each  morning  death  flung  me  back  to  life. 
Like  an  annuitant,  I  might  have  walked  through  flames 
untouched.  The  day  came  when  twenty  francs  were  all 
that  remained  to  me  ;  and  then  for  the  first  time  a 
thought  of  Kastignac's  great  luck  occurred  to  me,  and 
I  —  Ha,  ha  !  "  —  he  suddenly  bethought  himself  of  the 
talisman,  and  pulled  it  from  his  pocket. 

Whether  it  were  that  he  was  worn  out  by  the  strug- 
gles of  this  long  day,  and  no  longer  had  the  strength  to 
control  his  mind  amid  the  fumes  of  wine  and  punch,  or 
that,  exasperated  by  the  phantom  of  his  life  which  he 
had  thus  conjured  up,  he  had  insensibly  intoxicated 
himself  by  the  torrent  of  his  words,  Raphael  now  grew 
wild  and  excited,  like  a  man  completely  deprived  of 
reason. 

"  To  the  devil  with  death  !  "  he  cried,  brandishing 
the  Skin.  "  I  choose  to  live  !  I  am  rich  !  I  have  every 


200 


The  Magic  Skin. 


virtue  !  Nothing  can  thwart  me  !  TTho  would  Dot  be 
good  when  he  can  be  all?  Ha.  ha  I  I  have  wished  for 
two  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  I  shall  have 
them  !  Bow  down  before  me.  ye  swine,  who  wallow  on 
this  carpet  as  if  in  a  sty  !  You  belong  to  me.  fine  prop- 
erty that  you  are  !  I  can  buy  you  all.  —  even  that  deputy 
that  lies  snoring  over  there  !  Come,  you  refuse  of  high 
society,  make  obeisance  to  me  !     I 'm  your  Pope  Î  " 

These  violent  exclamations,  covered  at  first  by  the 
snores  of  those  about  him.  were  suddenly  heard.  Most 
of  the  sleepers  woke  up  shouting  :  they  saw  the  speaker 
standing  unsteadily  on  his  legs,  and  they  cursed  his 
noisy  drunkenness  with  a  concert  of  oaths. 

"  Silence  !  "  cried  Eaphael.  "  Hounds,  to  your  ken- 
nels !  Emile.  I  tell  you  I  have  treasures  ;  I  "11  give  you 
Havana  cigars  —  " 

"  I  hear  you.*'  replied  the  poet.  "  Fedora  or  death  ! 
Keep  it  up  !  That  sugar-plum  of  a  Fedora  is  only  de- 
ceiving you.  All  women  are  daughters  of  Eve.  Your 
tale  is  not  a  bit  dramatic. 99 

"  You  are  asleep,  you  cheat  !  " 

••  No.  no  :  Fedora  or  death  !    I  'm  listening." 

"Wake  up!"  cried  Raphael,  striking  Emile  with 
the  Magic  Skin  as  if  he  meant  to  draw  forth  an  electric 
fluid. 

r 

"Thunder!"  exclaimed  Emile,  rising  and  seizing 
Raphael  in  his  arms.  "  My  friend,  recollect  where  you 
are.  —  in  the  company  of  bad  women  !  " 

"  I'm  a  millionnaire  !  " 

"  Millionnaire  or  not.  you  are  drunk  !  " 

"Drunk  with  power,  —  lean  kill  you.  Silence!  I 
am  Xero  î    I  am  Nebuchadnezzar  !  " 


The  Magic  Skin. 


201 


"But,  Raphael,  hear  me;  we  are  in  bad  company. 
You  ought  to  be  silent  out  of  dignity." 

"  My  life  has  been  silent  too  long.  Now  I  will 
avenge  myself  on  the  universe  !  I  '11  not  play  at  spend- 
ing paltry  money,  —  I  '11  imitate  the  epoch.  I  '11  concen- 
trate its  teachings  in  myself  by  consuming  human  lives, 
and  intellects,  and  souls.  That 's  a  luxury  that  is  neither 
mean  nor  contemptible  ;  it  is  the  wealth,  the  opulence 
of  the  Plague  !  I  will  fight  with  fevers,  —  yellow,  blue, 
and  green, — with  armies,  with  scaffolds.  I  can  have 
Fedora  —  no,  no,  I  do  not  want  Fedora  ;  she  is  my  dis- 
ease.   I  am  dying  of  her.    Let  me  forget  Fedora  —  " 

"If  you  continue  to  shout  I'll  carry  you  into  the 
dining-room." 

"Do  you  see  that  Skin?  It  is  the  last  will  and 
testament  of  Solomon.  He 's  mine,  that  Solomon,  — 
that  little  pedant  of  a  king  !  Arabia  is  in  the  hollow 
of  my  hand,  —  Petrsea  too.  The  universe  is  mine.  You 
are  mine  if  I  want  you,  —  Ha  !  take  care,  lest  I  do 
want  you.  I  can  buy  up  your  trumpery  journal  ;  I  '11 
make  you  my  valet.  You  can  write  verses  and  rule 
my  paper  for  me.  Valet  !  valet,  —  that  means  :  He  has 
health,  because  he  thinks  of  nothing." 

Here  Emile  dragged  Raphael  into  the  dining-room. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "I'm  }Tour 
valet.  But  you  are  to  be  editor-in-chief  of  a  newspaper, 
and  you  must  hold  your  tongue.  Be  decent,  if  only  out 
of  regard  for  me.    You  do  care  for  me,  don't  you?  " 

"Don't  I!  You  shall  smoke  Havana  cigars  out  of 
the  Skin.  The  Skin,  the  Skin,  my  friend,  the  Sover- 
eign Skin, — it's  a  panacea,  it  will  cure  corns!  Have 
you  corns?  I'll  extract  them." 


202 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  Never  did  I  see  you  so  stupid." 

"  Stupid  !  No.  That  Skin  is  to  shrink  whenever  I 
form  a  wish  —  it 's  a  living  paradox.  The  brahman  (for 
there's  a  brahman  behind  it  all)  the  brahman  was  a 
miserable  joker  because,  don't  you  see,  desires  must 
stretch  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  see  —  " 

"I  tell  you—" 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  very  true,  I  think  as  you  do, 
desires  stretch  —  " 

"  I  told  you  the  Skin  must  stretch." 
"Yes." 

"  You  don't  believe  me  ;  I  see  you  don't  ;  you  're  as 
deceitful  as  that  new  king  of  ours." 

"  How  am  I  to  follow  your  drunken  ramblings?  " 

14 1  bet  I  can  prove  it  to  you.  Let's  take  its 
measure." 

"  Heavens  Î  will  he  never  go  to  sleep  !  "  cried  Emile, 
as  Raphael  began  to  hunt  about  the  room  for  some- 
thing. 

Valentin,  with  the  cleverness  of  a  monkey,  thanks 
to  the  curious  lucidity  of  mind  which  occasionally 
contrasts  in  drunken  men  with  their  obtuseness  of 
vision,  soon  found  an  inkstand  and  a  napkin,  repeating 
all  the  while,  "  Take  the  measure  !  Take  the  measure  ! 
Take  the  measure  !  " 

u  Yes,"  said  Emile,  "  let  us  take  the  measure." 

The  two  friends  spread  out  the  napkin,  and  laid  the 
Magic  Skin  upon  it.  Emile,  whose  hand  was  steadier 
than  Raphael's,  took  the  pen  and  marked  an  ink  line 
round  the  talisman,  while  his  friend  kept  saying,  "I 
wished  for  two  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year,  didn't 


The  Magie  Skin. 


203 


I?  Well,  when  I  get  them,  you  will  see  that  Skin 
shrink." 

u  Yès,  but  now  go  to  sleep.  Come  and  lie  down  on 
this  sofa.    There,  are  you  comfortable?  " 

"  Yes,  my  suckling  of  the  Press.  You  shall  amuse 
me,  and  brush  off  the  flies.  The  friend  of  evil  days 
has  a  right  to  be  the  friend  of  power,  and  I  '11  —  give 
you  —  ci  —  gars  —  Hav  —  " 

"Come,  sleep  off  }'our  gold,  milliomlaire.,, 

"  Sleep  off  your  articles,  you —  Good-night.  Say 
good-night  to  Nebuchadnezzar.  Love  !  Your  health  ! 
France  —  glory  and  riches  —  rich —  " 

Soon  the  two  friends  added  their  snores  to  the  mu- 
sic that  echoed  in  the  adjoining  rooms.  The  candles 
burned  down  one  by  one,  shattered  their  glass  cups  and 
then  went  out.  Night  wrapped  its  black  crape  round 
the  long  orgy,  to  which  Raphael's  tale  had  been  like  an 
orgy  of  speech,  of  words  without  ideas,  of  ideas  for 
which  the  right  expression  was  often  wanting. 

About  twelve  o'clock  of  the  next  day  the  beautiful 
Aquilina  rose,  yawning  and  languid,  with  her  cheek 
marbled  by  the  imprint  of  the  stamped  velvet  footstool 
on  which  her  head  had  been  lying.  Euphrasia,  wakened 
by  the  movement  of  her  companion,  jumped  up  suddenly, 
uttering  a  hoarse  cry.  Her  pretty  face,  so  fair,  so  fresh 
the  night  before,  was  3^ellow  and  pale,  like  that  of  a  girl 
on  her  way  to  the  hospital.  One  by  one  the  guests  began 
to  stir  and  to  groan  as  they  felt  the  stiffness  of  their  arms 
and  legs,  and  the  divers  fatigues  which  overcame  them 
on  waking.  A  footman  opened  the  blinds  and  windows 
of  the  salon.  The  company  were  presently  upon  their 
feet,  called  to  life  by  the  warm  sunbeams  which  sparkled 


204 


The  Magic  Skin. 


upon  their  slumbering  heads.  The  women,  whose  ele- 
gantly arranged  hair  was  now  dishevelled  and  whose 
dresses  were  disordered  by  the  tossings  of  sleep,  pre- 
sented a  hideous  spectacle  in  the  light  of  day.  Their 
hair  hung  down,  the  expression  of  their  faces  had 
changed,  their  eyes  so  brilliant  the  night  before  were 
dulled  by  lassitude.  The  sallow  complexions,  often  so 
dazzling  by  candlelight,  were  shocking  to  behold  ;  the 
lymphatic  faces,  so  fair  and  soft  when  at  their  best,  had 
turned  green  ;  the  lips,  so  deliciously  rosy  a  few  hours 
earlier,  were  now  dry  and  pallid,  and  bore  the  shameful 
stigmata  of  drunkenness.  The  men  recoiled  from  their 
mistresses  of  the  night  before  when  they  saw  them  thus 
discolored  and  cadaverous,  like  flowers  crushed  in  the 
street  after  the  passage  of  a  procession. 

But  the  men  who  scorned  the  women  were  still 
more  horrible  to  behold.  You  would  have  shuddered 
to  see  those  human  faces,  those  cavernous  eyes  which 
seemed  unable  to  see,  torpid  with  wine,  stupid  with 
the  weariness  of  a  cramped  sleep  more  fatiguing  than 
restorative.  Each  haggard  face  on  which  the  physical 
appetites  now  lay  bare  to  the  eye,  without  the  imagina^ 
charm  with  which  our  souls  endeavor  to  invest  them, 
was  unspeakably  ferocious  and  coldly  bestial.  This 
awaking  of  Vice,  naked  and  without  disguises,  this  skele- 
ton of  Evil,  in  tatters,  cold,  empty,  stripped  of  the  sophis- 
tries of  the  mind  or  the  fascinations  of  luxury,  horrified 
the  boldest  of  these  athletes,  habituated  as  they  were  to 
battle  with  Excess.  Artists  and  courtesans  kept  silence 
as  they  gazed  with  haggard  eyes  at  the  disorder  of  the 
room  where  devastation  reigned.  A  satanic  laugh  sud- 
denly arose  as  Taillefer,  hearing  the  smothered  groaning 


The  Magic  Skin. 


205 


of  bis  guests,  endeavored  to  salute  them  with  a  grin  ; 
his  bloated  perspiring  face  seemed  to  hover  over  the 
scene  like  an  infernal  image  of  remorseless  crime.  The 
picture  was  complete,  —  the  life  of  beasts  in  the  midst 
of  luxury,  a  horrible  mixture  of  human  pomps  and 
wretchedness,  the  awakening  from  debauch  when  Ex- 
cess with  its  strong  hands  has  pressed  the  juice  from 
the  fruits  of  life  and  left  nothing  behind  but  the  worth- 
less refuse.  You  might  have  thought  that  Death  was 
there  smiling  down  upon  a  plague-smitten  family  ;  no 
more  perfumes  and  dazzling  lights,  no  gayety,  no  de- 
sires ;  only  Disgust  with  its  nauseous  odors,  its  pungent 
philosophy,  and  with  it  all,  the  sun  flaming  out  truth,  an 
air  pure  as  virtue,  contrasting  with  the  heated,  fetid 
atmosphere,  the  miasmas  of  an  orgy. 

Several  of  these  young  girls,  notwithstanding  their 
depravity,  were  constrained  to  think  on  their  waking  of 
other  days,  when,  pure  and  innocent,  the}^  looked  from 
their  windows  embowered  in  honeysuckle,  across  the 
meadows  where  the  lark  was  rising,  and  the  rosy  dawn 
illumined  vaporously  the  fairy  network  of  the  dew. 
Others  thought  of  the  family  breakfast,  — the  table  around 
which  parents  and  children  laughed  together,  and  the 
food  was  simple  as  their  hearts.  An  artist  thought  of 
his  studio,  its  peace,  his  chaste  statue  and  the  graceful 
model  who  was  there  awaiting  him.  A  young  man, 
remembering  a  lawsuit  on  which  the  fate  of  a  family  de- 
pended, thought  of  the  duty  that  demanded  his  presence. 
The  man  of  science  regretted  his  study  and  the  noble 
work  he  was  neglecting.  All  were  bitter  against  them- 
selves. At  this  moment  Emile,  fresh  and  rosy  as  a  fash- 
ionable young  shop-man,  came  into  the  room,  laughing. 


206 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  You  are  all  uglier  than  a  sheriff's  officer,"  he 
cried.  "  You  can't  do  anything  to-day  ;  the  morning  is 
half  over  :  I  propose  that  we  breakfast." 

At  these  words,  Taillefer  left  the  room  to  give 
orders.  The  women  languidly  set  about  smoothing 
their  hair  and  repairing  the  disorder  of  their  dresses 
before  the  mirrors.  They  shook  themselves  together. 
The  most  vicious  lectured  the  more  innocent,  ridiculing 
those  who  seemed  hardly  able  to  go  on  with  the  coarse 
revelry.  In  a  few  moments,  however,  the  spectres  were 
alive  again  ;  they  fell  into  groups,  questioned  each  other, 
and  smiled.  A  few  nimble  servants  restored  order  to 
the  furniture  and  put  things  in  their  places  ;  an  elegant 
breakfast  was  served  ;  and  the  guests  crowded  into  the 
dining-room.  There,  although  they  all  bore  the  in- 
effaceable signs  of  the  excesses  of  the  night  before,  still 
some  traces  of  life  and  thought,  such  as  we  sometimes 
see  in  the  last  convulsions  of  the  dying,  were  visible. 
Like  the  procession  of  the  Mardi  Gras,  the  saturnalia 
was  buried  by  the  mummers  weary  of  their  dances,  sick 
of  their  drunkenness,  and  anxious  to  convict  pleasure  of 
stupidity  rather  than  confess  its  ugliness. 

Just  as  this  daring  company  were  taking  their  seats 
at  the  breakfast-table,  Cardot,  the  notary,  who  had 
prudently  disappeared  after  dinner,  re-appeared  at  the 
door  with  a  gentle  smile  on  his  official  face.  He  seemed 
to  have  discovered  some  inheritance  to  divide,  or  to 
inventory,  an  inheritance  full  of  deeds  to  be  drawn,  big 
with  fees,  as  juicy  as  the  fillet  into  which  the  amphitryon 
was  then  plunging  his  knife. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  so  we  are  to  breakfast  before  a  notary," 
cried  De  Cursy. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


207 


"  You've  come  in  time  to  appraise  all  these  fine 
things/'  said  the  banker,  pointing  to  the  new  banquet. 

"  We  have  no  wills  to  make,  and  as  for  marriage 
contracts,  I  don't  know  about  them,"  said  the  man  of 
science,  who  had  made  a  successful  first  marriage  within 
a  year. 

"Oh!  Oh!" 

"Ah!  Ah!" 

"  One  moment,"  said  Cardot,  deafened  by  a  chorus  of 
trumpery  jokes,  "  I  have  come  on  serious  business.  I 
bring  six  millions  for  one  of  you.  [Deep  silence.]  Mon- 
sieur," he  continued,  addressing  Raphael,  who  wTas  at 
that  moment  unceremoniously  employed  in  wiping  his 
eyes  with  the  corner  of  his  napkin,  "  was  }Tour  mother 
a  demoiselle  O'Hara  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Raphael,  almost  mechanically, 
u  Barbara-Maria." 

"  Have  you  a  certificate  of  your  birth  and  that  of 
Madame  de  Valentin?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"Well,  monsieur;  you  are  the  sole  heir  of  Major 
O'Hara,  deceased  in  August,  1828,  at  Calcutta." 

"  What  a  piece  of  luck  !  "  came  from  many  voices. 

"The  major  having  bequeathed  several  large  sums 
to  certain  public  institutions,  his  property  has  been 
demanded  and  obtained  from  the  India  Company  by  the 
French  government,"  resumed  the  notary;  "it  is  now 
liquidated  and  payable  to  the  rightful  owners.  For  the 
last  two  weeks  I  have  been  vainly  searching  for  the  heirs 
and  assigns  of  Mademoiselle  Barbara-Maria  O'Hara, 
and  last  night,  at  table  —  " 

Raphael  suddenly  rose,  with  the  startled  movement 


208 


The  Magic  Skin. 


of  a  man  who  receives  a  wound.  Silent  acclamations, 
as  it  were,  greeted  him  ;  the  first  feeling  of  the  guests 
was  that  of  sulk}'  envy,  and  all  eyes  flamed  as  they 
turned  upon  him.  Then  a  murmur,  like  that  of  the  pit 
of  a  theatre  when  displeased,  a  clamor  of  voices  rose 
and  swelled  as  each  guest  said  his  say  about  the  vast 
fortune  thus  delivered  by  the  notary.  Restored  to  his 
full  senses  by  this  sudden  obedience  of  destiny  to  his 
will,  Raphael  laid  the  napkin  with  which  he  had  lately 
measured  the  Magic  Skin  before  him  on  the  table. 
Without  listening  to  a  word  that  was  spoken,  he 
stretched  the  Skin  upon  the  cloth,  and  shuddered  vio- 
lently when  he  saw  a  slight  space  between  the  line 
marked  on  the  linen  and  the  edges  of  the  Skin  itself. 

' '  Well,  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  cried  Taillefer  ;  "  he  gets 
his  fortune  easily  —  " 

"  1  Support  him,  Châtillon,'  "  said  Bixiou  to  Emile, 
"joy  is  killing  him." 

A  dreadful  pallor  defined  every  muscle  in  the  hag- 
gard face  of  the  new  heir  ;  his  features  contracted,  the 
projections  of  his  face  whitened,  the  hollow  parts  grew 
dusky,  the  whole  surface  was  livid  and  the  eyes  were 
fixed.  He  saw  Death.  This  splendid  banquet  sur- 
rounded by  faded  prostitutes,  by  surfeited  faces,  this 
death-bed  of  joy,  —  was  it  not  the  image  of  his  life  ?  He 
looked  three  times  at  the  talisman  which  lay  within  the 
pitiless  lines  traced  on  the  napkin  ;  he  tried  to  doubt  ; 
but  a  clear  and  strong  presentiment  annihilated  his  un- 
belief. The  world  was  his,  —  he  could  do  all  things  ; 
but  he  could  wish  for  nothing.  Like  the  traveller  in  the 
desert,  he  carried  a  little  water  to  slake  his  thirst,  and 
he  must  measure  his  life  by  its  mouthfuls.   He  saw  that 


The  Magic  Skin. 


209 


every  desire  would  cost  him  days  of  existence.  He 
believed  in  that  Magic  Skin.  He  listened  to  his  own 
breathing  ;  he  felt  he  was  ill  ;  he  asked  himself,  "  Am  I 
consumptive?    Did  my  mother  die  of  a  lung  disease?" 

"  Ha,  ha,  Raphael,  what  fine  amusements  you  can 
have  !   What  are  you  going  to  give  me  ?  "  said  Aquilina. 

"Let  us  drink  to  the  honor  of  the  deceased  uncle, 
Major  Martin  O'Hara.    What  a  man  !  " 

"  He  '11  be  peer  of  France." 

"Bah!  what's  a  peer  of  France  since  July  ?  "  said 
the  critic. 

"  Shall  you  have  a  box  at  the  Bouffons?  " 

4  6 1  hope  }rou  '11  make  us  a  feast  and  give  us  all  our 
deserts,"  said  Bixiou. 

"  A  man  like  Raphael  knows  how  to  do  things  hand- 
somely," said  Emile. 

The  cheers  of  the  laughing  company  echoed  in  Val- 
entin's ears  ;  but  the  meaning  of  their  words  never 
reached  him  ;  he  was  thinking  vaguely  of  the  mechan- 
ical, uneventful  life  of  a  Breton  peasant,  — a  life  with- 
out wishes,  burdened  by  a  family,  ploughing  the  fields, 
eating  buckwheat,  drinking  cider  or  home-made  wine, 
believing  in  the  Virgin  and  the  King,  taking  the  sacra- 
ment at  Easter,  dancing  on  the  green  on  Sunda}'S,  and 
understanding  not  a  word  of  the  rector's  sermon.  The 
sights  that  were  now  spread  before  the  dreamer's  eyes, 
the  gilded  ceilings,  the  painted  panellings,  the  women, 
the  feast,  the  luxury,  clutched  him  as  it  were  by  the 
throat  and  made  him  choke. 

"  Do  you  wish  for  some  asparagus,"  asked  Taillefer. 

"  I  wish  for  nothing,"  cried  Raphael,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

14 


210 


The  Magic  Skin. 


4  4  Bravo  !"  returned  the  banker.  "You  are  begin- 
ning to  understand  wealth  ;  it  is  a  patent  of  imperti- 
nence. You  are  one  of  us.  Gentlemen,  let  us  drink 
to  the  power  of  gold.  Monsieur  cle  Valentin,  now  six 
times  a  millionnaire,  assumes  power.  He  is  king  ;  he 
can  do  all  things  ;  he  is  above  all  things,  like  every 
other  rich  man.  To  him  in  future  the  first  principle 
of  the  Charter,  4  All  Frenchmen  are  equal  before  the 
lav: J  is  a  lie.  He  does  not  obey  law,  law  obeys  him. 
There  are  no  scaffolds,  no  executioners  for  rich  men." 

"  You  mistake,"  said  Raphael  ;  "  they  are  their  own 
executioners." 

44  That 's  another  prejudice  !  "  cried  the  banker. 

44  Let  us  drink,"  said  Raphael,  putting  the  talisman 
into  his  pocket. 

44  Don't  do  that!"  said  Emile,  catching  his  hand. 
44  Gentlemen,"  he  added,  addressing  the  compan}',  who 
by  this  time  were  a  good  deal  surprised  at  Raphael's 
behavior,  4  4  you  must  know  that  our  friend  de  Valentin 
—  what  am  I  saying?  —  Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Valen- 
tin possesses  a  secret  means  of  making  wealth.  His 
wishes  are  accomplished  the  moment  that  he  forms 
them.  Unless  he  means  to  behave  like  a  lackey,  or  a 
man  of  no  principle,  he  will  now  proceed  to  make  us 
all  rich." 

44  Ah,  my  little  Raphael,  give  me  a  set  of  pearls," 
cried  Euphrasia. 

44  If  he  has  any  gratitude  at  all  he  will  give  me  two 
carriages,  each  with  a  pair  of  beautiful  fast  horses," 
said  Aquilina. 

44  Wish  me  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year." 

44  To  me  some  cashmeres." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


211 


"Pay  my  debts." 

"  Send  an  apoplexy  to  that  old  uncle  of  mine." 
"  Eaphael,  I  '11  let  you  off  for  ten  thousand  francs  a 
year." 

"  Fine  deeds  of  gift  !  "  cried  the  notary. 
"  You  might  cure  my  gout." 

"  Bring  down  the  price  of  stocks,"  said  the  banker. 

All  these  speeches  went  off  like  the  rockets  of  the 
bouquet  which  ends  a  display  of  fireworks.  These 
eager  desires  were  made,  perhaps,  more  in  earnest  than 
in  jest. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Émile,  gravel}',  "I'll  be 
quite  satisfied  with  two  hundred  thousand  francs  a 
year.  So  now  begin  to  kill  yourself  with  a  good  grace, 
come." 

"Emile,"  said  Raphael,  "you  don't  know  what  it 
would  cost  me." 

"  A  fine  excuse  I  cried  the  poet.  "  We  ought  all 
to  sacrifice  ourselves  to  our  friends." 

"  I  have  a  mind  to  wish  for  the  death  of  every  one  of 
you,"  answered  Valentin,  casting  a  deep  and  darkling 
look  at  the  guests. 

"  Dying  men  are  frightfully  cruel,"  said  Émile, 
laughing.  "Here  you  are,  rich,"  he  added,  seriously. 
"  Well,  I  give  you  two  months  to  become  disgustingly 
selfish.  You  are  already  stupid,  for  you  can't  under- 
stand a  joke.  The  next  thing  will  be  that  }rou  will 
actually  believe  in  that  Magic  Skin  of  yours." 

Eaphael,  who  dreaded  the  satire  of  the  assembled 
company  kept  silence,  and  drank  inordinately,  to  for- 
get for  the  time  being  his  fatal  power. 


PART  III. 

THE  DEATH  AGONY. 

Early  in  the  month  of  December  an  old  man,  over 
seventy  years  of  age,  was  going  along  the  rue  de 
Varennes,  unmindful  of  the  rain,  and  gazing  up  at  the 
doors  of  all  the  houses,  looking,  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
lover  and  the  absorbed  air  of  a  philosopher,  for  the  one 
belonging  to  Monsieur  le  Marquis  Raphael  de  Valentin. 
An  expression  of  anxious  grief,  struggling  against  the 
will  of  a  despotic  nature,  was  on  his  face,  which  was 
dried  like  an  old  parchment  shrivelling  in  the  fire,  and 
framed  by  long  gray  locks,  now  hanging  in  disorder.  If 
a  painter  had  met  this  singular  personage,  who  was  lean 
and  bony,  and  dressed  in  black,  he  would  certainly,  on 
returning  to  his  studio,  have  put  a  sketch  of  him  into 
his  note-book  with  the  inscription,  ''Classic  poet  in 
search  of  a  rhyme."  After  making  sure  of  the  number 
of  the  house,  this  living  palingenesia  of  Rollin  knocked 
gently  at  the  door  of  a  magnificent  hôtel. 

"  Is  Monsieur  Raphael  at  home?"  he  asked  of  the 
porter  in  livery. 

"  Monsieur  le  marquis  does  not  receive  visitors," 
answered  the  man,  swallowing  a  huge  bit  of  bread 
which  he  was  dipping  in  a  bowl  of  coffee. 

"  I  see  his  carriage,"  persisted  the  old  man,  pointing 
to  a  brilliant  equipage  standing  under  a  wooden  roof 


The  Magic  Skin. 


213 


painted  in  stripes  like  an  awning,  which  projected  from 
the  portico  and  overshadowed  the  steps.  4  '  He  must  be 
going  out  ;  and  I  will  wait  here  to  speak  with  him." 

"  Ah  !  my  old  friend,  then  you  may  have  to  wait  here 
till  to-morrow  morning  !  "  answered  the  porter.  "  There 
is  always  a  carriage  standing  ready  for  monsieur.  But 
please  go  away  ;  I  should  lose  an  annuity  of  six  hun- 
dred francs  if  I  were  to  let  a  stranger  into  the  house 
without  orders." 

Just  then  a  tall  old  man,  whose  apparel  was  a  good 
deal  like  that  of  an  usher  in  a  ministerial  office,  came 
out  of  the  vestibule,  and  down  a  few  steps  hastily,  to 
examine  the  astonished  petitioner. 

"  Well,  here's  Monsieur  Jonathas,"  said  the  porter. 
"  You  can  ask  him." 

The  two  old  men,  attracted  to  each  other  by  the 
sympathy  of  age,  or  by  mutual  curiosity,  met  in  the 
middle  of  the  large  court-yard,  where  tufts  of  grass 
were  growing  between  the  paving-stones.  A  dreadful 
silence  reigned  about  the  house.  An  observer,  looking 
at  Jonathas,  would  have  longed  to  fathom  the  mystery 
that  loomed  on  his  face,  and  appeared  in  all  the  details 
of  the  gloomy  premises.  Raphael's  first  care,  after 
succeeding  to  the  wealth  of  his  uncle,  had  been  to  find 
out  what  had  become  of  the  old  and  devoted  servant, 
whose  affection  he  could  rely.  Jonathas  wept  with  joy 
when  he  saw  his  young  master,  —  from  whom  he  had 
thought  himself  forever  parted,  —  and  his  happiness, 
when  the  marquis  promoted  him  to  the  important  func- 
tions of  steward,  knew  no  bounds.  The  old  man  be- 
came an  intermedia^  power  stationed  between  Valentin 
and  the  outer  world.    Sole  manager  of  his  master's 


214 


The  Magic  Shin, 


wealth,  blind  agent  of  a  mysterious  thought,  he  was 
like  a  sixth  sense  through  which  the  emotions  of  life 
were  brought  to  Raphael. 

"  Monsieur,  I  wish  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Raphael," 
said  the  other  old  man,  pointing  to  the  steps  of  the 
portico,  as  if  to  ask  for  shelter  from  the  rain. 

u  Speak  to  Monsieur  le  marquis!"  exclaimed  the 
steward.  "He  scarcely  ever  speaks  to  me,  his  foster- 
father." 

"I  am  also  his  foster-father!"  said  the  old  man. 
"  If  your  wife  fed  him  with  her  milk,  I  taught  him  to 
suck  the  breast  of  the  Muses.  He  is  my  nursling, 
my  child,  —  carus  alumnus.  I  fashioned  his  brain, 
cultivated  his  understanding,  developed  his  genius  ;  and 
I  say  it  to  my  own  honor  and  glory.  Is  he  not  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  our  epoch?  He  was 
under  me  in  the  sixth  and  third  classes,  and  in  rhetoric. 
I  am  his  professor  !  " 

"  Ah  !  monsieur  is  Monsieur  Porriquet?  " 

"  Precisely.    But  monsieur  —  " 

"  Hush,  hush!"  said  Jonathas  to  two  scullions 
whose  voices  broke  the  dead  silence  which  pervaded 
the  premises. 

"  Is  Monsieur  le  marquis  ill?  "  asked  the  professor, 
anxiously. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  God  alone  knows  what  is  the  matter 
with  him  !  There  's  not  another  house  in  Paris  like 
this, — do  you  hear  me?  —  not  another.  Good  God! 
no.  Monsieur  le  marquis  bought  it  from  the  former 
proprietor,  —  a  duke  and  peer.  He  has  spent  three 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  furnishing  it  ;  that 's  not  a 
trifling  sum  !    Every  room  in  the  house  is  a  miracle. 


The  Magic  Shin.  215 


Good!  when  I  saw  all  this  magnificence,  I  said  to 
myself:  'It  is  his  grandfather's  time  over  again;  the 
young  master  will  invite  all  the  world,  and  the  court, 
too.'  Not  at  all!  Monsieur  never  sees  anyone.  He 
leads  a  strange  life,  Monsieur  Porriquet,  —  do  you  hear 
me?  —  an  inconceivable  life.  He  gets  up  every  day  at 
the  same  hour.  None  but  I  —  I  alone,  believe  me  — 
am  allowed  to  enter  his  room.  I  open  his  door  at 
seven  o'clock,  summer  and  winter.  There's  a  queer 
compact  between  us.  After  I  enter  I  say,  4  Monsieur 
le  marquis,  }Tou  must  wake  up  ;  you  must  dress.'  And 
then  he  wakes  up  and  dresses.  I  give  him  his  dressing- 
gown,  always  made  in  the  same  st}Tle  and  of  the  same 
sort  of  stuff.  I  am  obliged  to  replace  everything  when 
it  gets  worn,  so  that  he  need  never  ask  for  new  things. 
Was  .there  ever  such  a  fancy?  Well,  poor  dear,  he 
has  a  thousand  francs  a  day  to  spend,  and  so  he  can 
do  as  he  likes  !  I  love  him  so  that  if  he  boxed  my 
right  ear  I 'd  turn  him  the  left.  He  might  tell  me  to 
do  the  most  difficult  things,  and  I  should  do  them,  — 
do  them,  do  you  hear  me?  As  for  other  matters,  he 
makes  me  attend  to  such  a  lot  of  trifles  that  I  'm  kept 
busy  all  the  time.  Say  he  reads  the  papers, — well,  I 
have  to  put  them  every  morning  in  the  same  place  on 
the  same  table.  I  am  to  come  at  precisely  the  same 
hour  to  shave  him,  —  and  don't  I  tremble?  The  cook 
will  lose  an  annuity  of  a  thousand  francs,  which  he  is 
to  have  at  his  master's  death,  if  breakfast  is  not  served 
precisely  at  ten  in  the  morning  and  dinner  at  five.  The 
bill  of  fare  is  made  out  for  the  whole  year,  day  after 
day,  and  no  changes  allowed.  Monsieur  le  marquis 
has  nothing  to  wish  for.    He  has  strawberries  when 


216 


The  Magic  Skin. 


there  are  strawberries,  and  the  first  mackerel  which 
comes  to  Paris.  The  dinner-list  is  printed,  and  he 
knows  it  by  heart.  For  the  rest,  he  dresses  at  the 
same  hour,  in  the  same  linen,  the  same  clothes,  laid 
out  by  me  —  by  me,  do  you  hear  me?  —  on  the  same 
chair.  I  have  to  see  that  the  cloth  of  his  clothes  is  al- 
ways the  same  ;  if  his  overcoat  were  to  get  worn  out 
(but  that's  only  a  supposition),  I  should  replace  it 
without  saying  a  word  to  him.  If  the  weather  is  fine  I 
go  in  and  say,  'You  ought  to  go  out,  monsieur.'  To 
that  he  replies  yes,  or  no.  If  yes,  he  is  not  obliged 
to  wait  a  moment,  — the  horses  are  kept  harnessed,  the 
coachman  sits  on  his  box,  whip  in  hand,  just  as  you 
see  him  over  there.  In  the  evening,  after  dinner, 
monsieur  goes  one  day  to  the  Français,  and  another 
day  to  the  Op  —  stay,  no,  he  has  n't  yet  been  to  the 
Opera,  for  I  could  not  get  a  box  till  yesterday.  Then 
he  comes  home  precisely  at  eleven  o'clock  and  goes  to 
bed.  During  the  day  he  does  nothing,  absolutely  noth- 
ing, but  reads,  reads,  reads  forever  ;  it  is  a  notion  he 
has.  I  am  ordered  to  study  the  6  Bookseller's  Journal,' 
and  buy  all  the  new  books,  so  that  he  may  find  them 
on  his  table  on  the  day  of  publication.  It  is  my  busi- 
ness to  go  into  his  room  every  hour  and  look  after  the 
fire  and  other  things,  so  that  he  can  never  want  any- 
thing. Why,  monsieur,  he  gave  me  a  little  book  of  my 
duties,  —  a  sort  of  catechism,  which  I  had  to  learn  by 
heart  !  In  summer  I  arrange  piles  of  ice  to  keep  the 
temperature  of  his  room  cool,  and  put  fresh  flowers 
everywhere.  Rich!  I  should  think  he  was  rich, — he 
has  a  thousand  francs  a  day  to  get  rid  of  !  he  can  do 
what  he  likes  now.  He  was  long  enough,  poor  boy,  with- 


The  Magic  Skin. 


217 


out,  as  you  may  say,  the  necessaries  of  life  !  Well, 
he  troubles  no  one  ;  he  is  as  good  as  gold.  He  never 
speaks  ;  dead  silence  in  the  house  and  garden.  But, 
dull  as  the  life  is,  my  master  has  n't  a  wish  to  gratify  ; 
everything  goes  by  clock-work  et  recta.  And  he  is 
quite  right,  too  ;  if  you  don't  keep  servants  up  to  the 
mark  things  are  soon  at  sixes  and  sevens.  I  tell  him 
all  he  ought  to  do,  and  he  does  it.  You  would  n't 
believe  how  far  he  carries  that  sort  of  thing  !  His 
rooms  are  in  a  —  a,  what  do  you  call  it?  —  suite.  Well, 
suppose  he  opens  his  chamber-door,  or  his  study-door, 

—  bang  !  all  the  other  doors  open  of  themselves  by 
mechanism  ;  and  then  he  goes  from  end  to  end  of  his 
rooms  without  finding  a  single  door  closed,  —  very 
convenient  and  agreeable  for  us  servants  !  In  short, 
Monsieur  Porriquet,  he  told  me  in  the  beginning, — 
'Jonathas,  you  are  to  take  care  of  me  like  a  babe  in 
swaddling-clothes,'  —  swaddling-clothes,  yes,  monsieur, 
that 's  just  what  he  did  say,  swaddling-clothes  !  6  You 
are  to  think  of  all  my  wants  for  me.'    I 'm  the  master, 

—  do  you  hear  me?  —  the  master,  and  he  is,  after  a 
fashion,  the  servant.  And  why?  Ah,  that's  some- 
thing nobody  in  the  world  knows  but  himself  and  the 
good  God  !    It 's  incomprehensible  !  " 

"  He  must  be  writing  a  poem,"  said  the  professor. 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Is  that  so  very  absorbing?  But 
I  don't  believe  you  are  right.  He  often  tells  me  he  wants 
to  live  like  a  vegetable,  to  vegetate.  No  later  than  yes- 
terday, Monsieur  Porriquet,  he  looked  at  a  tulip  while  he 
was  dressing,  and  he  said  to  me,  4  There 's  my  life.  I 
vegetate,  my  poor  Jonathas.'  People  are  begirming  to 
call  it  monomania.    Well,  it 's  inconceivable  !  " 


218 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  It  all  goes  to  prove,  Jonathas,"  said  the  professor, 
in  a  grave,  dictatorial  tone  which  greatly  impressed  the 
old  valet,  "  that  your  master  is  engaged  on  some  great 
work.  He  is  plunged  in  deep  and  boundless  meditation, 
and  he  does  not  choose  to  be  disturbed  by  the  affairs  of 
daily  life.  A  man  of  genius  forgets  everything  when 
absorbed  in  intellectual  toil.  One  day  the  celebrated 
Newton  —  " 

"  Newton?"  said  Jonathas,  "  I  don't  know  him." 

"  Newton,  a  great  mathematican,"  resumed  Porriquet, 
"once  spent  twenty-four  hours  with  his  elbows  on  a 
table  ;  when  he  came  out  of  his  reverie  he  thought  it  was 
still  the  day  before,  just  as  if  he  had  been  to  bed  and  to 
sleep.  I  must  see  Monsieur  Raphael,  —  dear  bo}* ,  per- 
haps I  can  help  him,"  added  the  professor,  making  a  few 
steps  toward  the  house. 

uStop!"  cried  Jonathas.  "Were  you  the  king 
of  France,  old  man,  you  can't  go  in  there  unless  you 
force  the  doors  and  walk  over  my  dead  body.  But, 
Monsieur  Porriquet,  I'll  go  and  tell  him  you  are  here. 
I  shall  sa}',  6  Is  he  to  come  up  ?  '  and  he  '11  answer,  4  Yes,' 
or  6  No.'  I  am  never  allowed  to  ask  him,  6  Do  you  wish  ? 
Is  it  your  desire  ?  Will  you  do  so  and  so  ?  '  Those  words 
are  blotted  out  of  the  conversation.  Once  I  forgot  my- 
self and  blurted  out  one  of  them.  '  Do  yon  wish  to 
kill  me?  '  he  cried  in  a  rage." 

Jonathas  left  the  old  professor  in  the  vestibule, 
making  him  a  sign  that  he  was  to  come  no  farther  ;  he 
soon  returned  however  with  a  favorable  answer  and  con- 
ducted the  old  emeritus  through  a  suite  of  sumptuous 
apartments  the  doors  of  which  were  all  open.  Porriquet 
saw  his  old  pupil  in  the  distance  sitting  beside  the  fire- 


The  Magic  Skin. 


219 


place.  Wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown  made  of  some 
stuff  with  a  large  pattern,  and  sunken  in  a  padded  arm- 
chair, Kaphael  was  reading  a  newspaper.  The  deep 
melancholy  to  which  he  seemed  a  victim  was  expressed 
in  the  helpless  attitude  of  his  weakened  body  ;  it  was 
stamped  on  his  brow,  on  his  face,  pale  as  an  etiolated 
plant.  A  certain  effeminate  grace  and  the  fanciful  air 
peculiar  to  rich  invalids  clung  about  him.  His  hands, 
like  those  of  a  pretty  woman,  were  softly  and  delicately 
white.  His  fair  hair,  now  very  thin,  curled  about  the 
temples  with  dainty  coquetry.  A  Greek  cap,  dragged 
down  by  a  tassel  too  heavy  for  the  slight  cashmere  of 
which  it  was  made,  hung  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He 
had  let  a  malachite  paper-knife  with  a  gold  handle  which 
he  had  been  using  to  cut  the  leaves  of  a  book,  drop  at 
his  feet.  On  his  knees  was  the  amber  mouth-piece  of 
an  Indian  hookah  whose  enamelled  spirals  lay  like  a 
serpent  on  the  floor  ;  but  he  had  forgotted  to  inhale  its 
fragrant  odors.  And  yet,  the  pervading  feebleness  of 
this  young  body  was  belied  by  the  blue  eyes  ;  life  seemed 
to  concentrate  within  them  and  to  shine  with  an  ex- 
traordinar}^  perception  which  took  in  at  a  glance  every- 
thing about  him.  That  look  was  painful  to  behold. 
Some  would  have  called  it  despairing  ;  others  might  have 
read  it  to  mean  an  inward  struggle  more  terrible  even 
than  remorse.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  deep  and  all-em- 
bracing glance  of  a  powerless  man  driving  his  desires 
back  into  the  depths  of  his  soul  ;  the  glance  of  the  miser 
gloating  in  thought  over  pleasures  his  money  might 
bring  him,  but  which  he  denies  himself  rather  than  spend 
it  ;  the  glance  of  a  chained  Prometheus,  of  the  fallen 
Emperor  when  he  discovered  at  the  Elysée,  in  1815,  the 


220 


The  Magic  Skin. 


strategic  blunder  of  his  enemies,  and  asked  for  twenty- 
four  hours  of  command,  which  were  denied  him.  It 
was  the  look  of  a  conqueror,  and  tyet  the  look  of  a  lost 
soul,  —  the  same  look  that  some  months  earlier  Raphael 
had  cast  at  his  last  bit  of  gold  as  he  threw  it  on  the 
gambling- table,  the  same  that  a  few  minutes  later  he 
had  cast  at  the  Seine. 

He  now  submitted  his  will,  his  intellect,  to  the  coarse 
common-sense  of  the  old  peasant  who  was  only  half- 
civilized  after  fifty  years  of  servitude.  Almost  happy  in 
thus  becoming  a  species  of  automaton,  he  abdicated  life 
that  he  might  live,  and  stripped  his  soul  of  every  wish 
and  of  all  the  glories  of  desire.  He  made  himself  chaste 
after  the  manner  of  Origen,  emasculating  his  imagination 
that  he  might  the  better  struggle  with  that  cruel  Power 
whose  challenge  he  had  rashly  accepted.  The  morrow 
of  the  day  on  which,  suddenly  enriched  by  his  uncle's 
will,  he  had  seen  the  Magic  Skin  perceptibly  diminish, 
he  was  at  the  house  of  his  notary.  There  he  chanced 
to  meet  a  physician  who  related  how  a  native  of  Switzer- 
land had  cured  himself  of  consumption.  The  man  never 
spoke  for  ten  years,  compelled  himself  to  breathe  only 
six  times  a  minute,  in  the  close  air  of  a  cow-house, 
following  a  rigid  diet.  "  I  will  live  like  that  man,"  thought 
Raphael,  resolved  to  live  at  any  price.  In  the  midst  of 
luxury  he  led  the  life  of  a  steam-engine. 

The  old  professor  shuddered  as  he  looked  at  him; 
everything  about  that  frail  and  debilitated  body  seemed 
to  him  artificialv  The  recollection  of  his  fresh  and  rosy 
pupil  with  alert  young  limbs  came  to  his  mind  as  he  met 
the  burning  eye  of  the  marquis  and  saw  the  weight  of 
thought  upon  his  brow.    If  the  old  classic  scholar,  a 


The  Magic  Skin. 


221 


sagacious  critic  and  preserver  of  the  style  of  a  past 
da}r,  had  ever  read  Lord  Byron  he  would  have  fancied 
that  he  saw  Manfred  where  he  expected  to  have  seen 
Childe  Harold. 

"  Good  morning,  Père  Porriquet,"  said  Raphael  to 
his  old  teacher,  taking  the  cold  fingers  of  the  old  man 
into  his  own  burning  hand.    64  How  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  well,"  answered  the  old  man,  frightened 
by  the  touch  of  that  feverish  hand  ;  "  and  you?  " 

"Oh  !  I  hope  to  keep  myself  in  good  health." 

"  You  are  engaged,  I  suppose,  on  some  great  work?" 

"  No,"  answered  Raphael.  u  Exegi  monumentum  ;  I 
have  closed  the  books  and  bid  adieu  to  Science.  I 
really  don't  know  where  my  manuscripts  are." 

"  Your  style  was  pure,"  said  the  professor,  "  I  hope 
you  have  not  adopted  the  barbaric  language  of  the  new 
school,  who  thought  they  did  a  marvellous  deed  in 
producing  Ronsard  ?  " 

"  My  work  is  purely  physiological." 

44  Oh,  I  am  sorry,"  replied  the  professor.  uWhen 
it  comes  to  science,  grammar  must  lend  itself  to  the 
necessities  of  discovery.  Nevertheless,  my  dear  boy, 
a  clear  style  which  is  also  harmonious,  like  that  of 
Massillon,  Monsieur  de  Buffon,  and  the  great  Racine,  a 
classical  style,  can  never  injure  anything.  But,  my 
friend,"  said  the  old  man,  interrupting  himself,  "I  am 
forgetting  the  object  of  my  visit.  It  is  one  of  self- 
interest." 

Remembering  too  late  the  rhetorical  eloquence  to 
which  a  long  professorship  had  trained  his  old  master, 
Raphael  regretted  having  admitted  him,  and  was  about 
to  wish  that  he  would  go,  when  he  suddenly  strangled 


222 


The  Magic  Skin. 


the  secret  desire  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  Magic  Skin 
hanging  before  him.  It  was  fastened  to  a  white  cloth, 
on  which  its  fateful  outlines  were  carefully  drawn  by  a 
strong  red  line  which  accurately  marked  them.  Since 
the  fatal  banquet,  Raphael  had  subdued  the  very  least 
of  his  desires,  endeavoring  to  live  in  a  way  to  give  no 
cause  of  shrinking  to  the  terrible  talisman.  That  piece 
of  magic  leather  was  like  a  tiger  with  whom  he  was 
compelled  to  live  without  exciting  its  ferocity.  He 
therefore  listened  patiently  to  the  prolixities  of  the 
old  professor.  It  took  Père  Porriquet  nearly  an  hour 
to  relate  certain  persecutions  to  which  he  had  been 
subjected  since  the  Revolution  of  July.  The  worthy 
soul,  wishing  for  a  strong  government,  had  imprudently 
uttered  a  patriotic  desire  that  grocers  would  attend  to 
their  own  business,  statesmen  to  the  conduct  of  public 
affairs,  lawyers  to  their  cases,  and  peers  of  France  to 
their  duties  at  the  Luxembourg.  But  one  of  the  popu- 
lar ministers  of  the  citizen-king  had  resented  his  opin- 
ions, turned  him  out  of  his  professorship,  and  called  him 
a  Carlist.  He  now  came,  less  for  himself  than  for  those 
dependent  on  him,  to  entreat  his  former  pupil  to  obtain 
for  him  the  position  of  principal  in  one  of  the  Govern- 
ment provincial  colleges.  Raphael  was  falling  a  victim 
to  irrepressible  sleepiness,  when  the  monotonous  voice 
of  the  professor  suddenly  ceased  to  murmur  in  his 
ears.  Forced,  out  of  politeness,  to  look  into  the  faded 
and  almost  lifeless  eyes  of  the  old  man  as  he  uttered 
his  slow  and  wearisome  sentences,  Raphael  had  been 
first  stupefied,  then  magnetized  by  some  inexplicable 
inert  force. 

"  Well,  my  good  Père  Porriquet,"  he  answered, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


223 


without  really  knowing  to  what  request  he  was  reply- 
ing, "I  can  do  nothing, — really  nothing  at  all.  I 
sincerely  wish  you  may  succeed  — " 

As  he  spoke,  and  without  at  all  perceiving  the  effect 
his  selfish  and  indifferent  words  produced  upon  the 
sallow,  wrinkled  face  of  the  old  man,  Raphael  suddenly 
sprang  up  like  a  frightened  deer.  He  saw  a  slight 
white  line  between  the  edge  of  the  black  Skin  and  the 
broad  red  mark,  and  he  uttered  so  dreadful  a  cry  that 
the  poor  professor  was  terrified. 

"  Go,  go,  old  fool  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  you  will  get  that 
place  you  want,  whatever  it  is.  Why  could  you  not 
have  asked  me  for  an  annuity  rather  than  a  homicidal 
wish?  Your  visit  would  then  have  cost  me  nothing. 
There  are  a  hundred  thousand  employments  in  France, 
and  I  have  but  one  life.  The  life  of  a  man  is  worth 
more  than  all  the  appointments  in  the  universe  — 
Jonathas  !  " 

Jonathas  appeared. 

w  This  is  your  doing,  you  triple  fool  !  Why  did  you 
tell  me  to  receive  him?  "  he  cried,  pointing  to  the  petri- 
fied old  man.  "  Did  I  put  my  soul  in  your  keeping  to 
let  you  rend  it  in  pieces  ?  You  have  torn  ten  years  of 
life  awajr  from  me.  One  more  such  act,  and  you  will 
follow  me  where  I  followed  my  father.  Would  I  not 
rather  have  wished  and  obtained  my  beautiful  Fedora 
than  have  done  a  service  to  that  old  carcass,  that  rag 
of  humanity  ?  I  might  have  given  him  gold  —  Besides^ 
if  all  the  Porriquets  in  the  world  died  of  hunger,  what 
is  that  to  me  ?  " 

Anger  blanched  his  face  ;  a  slight  foam  came  upon 
his  trembling  lips  ;  the  expression  of  his  eye  was  blood- 


224 


The  Magic  Skin. 


thirsty.  At  sight  of  him  the  two  old  men  shuddered 
convulsively,  like  children  beholding  a  snake.  The 
young  man  fell  back  into  his  chair  ;  a  species  of  re- 
action took  place  within  him,  and  the  tears  flowed 
profusely  from  his  flaming  eyes. 

"  Oh,  my  life  !  my  beautiful  life  !  "  he  said.  "  No 
more  beneficent  thoughts  !  no  more  love  !  Nothing,  — 
nothing!"  He  turned  to  the  professor.  "  The  harm 
is  done,  old  friend,"  he  continued,  in  a  gentle  voice. 
"  I  have  largely  rewarded  you  for  all  your  care  of  me. 
My  misfortune  has  at  least  benefited  a  worthy  man." 

There  was  so  much  feeling  in  the  tone  with  which  he 
uttered  these  almost  unintelligible  words  that  the  two 
old  men  wept  as  one  weeps  on  hearing  some  tender  air 
sung  in  a  foreign  language. 

"  He  must  be  epileptic,"  said  Porriquet,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I  thank  you  for  that  thought,  my  friend,"  said 
Raphael,  gently.  "You  wish  to  excuse  me.  Disease 
is  an  accident  ;  inhumanity  is  vice.  Leave  me  now," 
he  added.  "  You  will  receive  to-morrow,  or  the  day 
after,  or  perhaps  to-night,  the  appointment  }'ou  are 
seeking,  for  resistance  has  triumphed  over  action. 
Adieu!" 

The  old  man  went  away  horror-stricken,  and  fuir  of 
anxiety  as  to  Raphael's  mental  state.  The  scene  struck 
him  as  bordering  on  the  supernatural.  He  doubted  his 
own  perceptions,  and  asked  himself  if  he  were  not 
waking  from  a  painful  dream. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Jonathas  !  "  said  the  young  man  to 
his  old  valet.  "  Try  to  understand  the  mission  I  have 
confided  to  you." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


225 


"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  marquis." 

44  I  am  a  man  outside  of  all  ordinary  laws." 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  marquis." 

u  All  the  delights  of  life  are  dancing  like  beautiful 
women  around  my  dying  bed.  If  I  call  to  them,  I  die. 
Death  !  always  death  !  You  must  be  the  barrier  be- 
tween the  world  and  me." 

44  Yes,  Monsieur  le  marquis,"  repeated  the  old  man, 
wiping  great  drops  of  sweat  from  his  wrinkled  brow. 
44  But  if  you  do  not  wish  to  see  beautiful  women,  how 
can  you  go  to  the  opera  to-night?  An  English  family 
who  are  returning  to  London  have  let  me  hire  their  box 
for  the  rest  of  the  season  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  best  — 
a  capital  box,  on  the  first  tier  !  " 

Raphael  had  sunk  into  a  reverie,  and  no  longer 
listened. 

Do  you  see  that  luxurious  carriage,  —  a  simple  coupé 
externally,  painted  brown,  and  on  its  panels  the  arms 
of  an  ancient  and  noble  family?  As  it  passes  rapidl}', 
the  grisettes  admire  it,  and  covet  the  satin  lining,  the 
carpet  from  the  Savonnerie,  the  gimps,  the  soft  cush- 
ions, and  the  plate-glass  windows.  Two  lackeys  in 
livery  stand  behind  that  aristocratic  equipage  ;  but 
within  it,  against  the  satin  lining,  lies  a  fevered  head, 
with  livid  circles  round  the  sunken  eyes,  —  Raphael's 
head,  sad  and  thoughtful.  Awful  image  of  wealth  ! 
He  crosses  Paris  like  a  meteor  ;  arrives  at  the  portico 
of  the  Théâtre  Favart  ;  the  steps  of  the  carriage  are  let 
down  ;  the  two  footmen  support  him  ;  an  envious  crowd 
watch  him. 

Raphael  walked  slowly  through  the  corridor;  he 

15 


226 


The  Magic  Skin. 


allowed  himself  none  of  the  pleasures  he  had  formerly 
coveted.  While  waiting  for  the  second  act  of  the 
Semiramide,  he  went  along  the  passages  and  up  and 
down  the  foyer,  forgetting  his  new  box,  which  he  had 
not  yet  entered.  The  sense  of  possession  no  longer 
existed  in  his  breast.  Like  all  sick  folk,  he  thought 
only  of  his  malady.  Leaning  against  the  mantle-shelf 
of  the  foyer,  around  which  were  circulating  the  old  and 
the  3'oung  men  of  fashion,  past  and  present  ministers 
of  state,  and  a  whole  societ}'  of  speculators  and  journal- 
ists, Eaphael  noticed  near  by  him  a  strange  and  even 
supernatural  figure.  He  advanced,  staring  somewhat 
insolently  at  the  fantastic  being,  that  he  might  get  a 
nearer  view  of  him.  "  What  a  wonderful  bit  of  paint- 
ing !  "  was  his  first  thought.  The  hair,  eye-brows,  and 
pointed  tuft  on  the  chin,  à  la  Mazarin,  were  dyed  black  ; 
but  the  coloring  matter,  being  applied  to  hair  that  was 
too  white  to  take  it  well,  had  given  the  whole  an  unnat- 
ural purplish  tinge,  the  tints  of  which  changed  under 
the  more  or  less  vivid  reflection  of  the  lights.  His  face 
was  flat  and  narrow,  the  wrinkles  were  filled  up  with 
thick  layers  of  rouge  and  white  enamel,  and  the  whole 
expression  was  crafty,  yet  anxious.  The  application 
of  paint  had  been  neglected  on  certain  parts  of  the 
face,  and  the  omission  brought  out  oddly  the  man's 
decrepitude  and  his  leaden  skin.  It  was  impossible  not 
to  laugh  at  that  strange  head,  with  the  pointed  chin 
and  the  projecting  forehead,  resembling,  as  it  did, 
those  grotesque  wooden  faces  carved  in  Germany  by 
shepherds  during  their  waiting  hours. 

If  an  observer  had  examined  alternately  this  old 
Adonis  and  Eaphael,  he  would  have  seen  in  the  mar- 


The  Magic  Skin. 


227 


quis  the  eyes  of  a  young  man  behind  a  mask  of  old 
age,  and  in  this  strange  being  the  sunken  eyes  of  de- 
crepitude beneath  the  mask  of  youth.  Valentin  tried 
to  recall  where  and  under  what  circumstances  he  had 
seen  the  strange  old  mummy,  now  fashionably  booted 
and  cravatted,  crossing  his  arms  and  clicking  his  heels, 
as  if  he  had  all  the  vigor  of  petulant  youth  at  his  com- 
mand. His  step  had  nothing  constrained  or  artificial 
about  it.  An  elegant  coat,  carefully  buttoned,  covered 
a  strong  and  bony  frame,  giving  him  the  general  look 
of  an  old  dandy  who  clings  to  the  last  fashion.  This 
extraordinary  puppet,  full  of  life,  had  all  the  charms  of 
an  apparition  to  Raphael  ;  he  gazed  at  him  as  though 
he  were  some  smoke-dried  Rembrandt,  recently  re- 
stored, varnished,  and  put  in  a  new  frame.  This  com- 
parison suddenly  brought  light  into  the  tangle  of  his 
confused  recollections  ;  he  recognized  the  old  antiquary, 
the  man  to  whom  he  owed  his  misery. 

At  that  instant  a  sort  of  silent  laugh  came  from  the 
fantastic  being,  and  stretched  his  cold  lips,  already 
strained  over  a  set  of  false  teeth.  As  he  noticed  it, 
Raphael's  vivid  imagination  showed  him  the  striking 
likeness  between  this  man  and  the  ideal  heads  which 
painters  give  to  the  Mephistopheles  of  Goethe.  Super- 
stition seized  upon  the  strong  mind  of  the  young  man  ; 
he  suddenly  believed  in  the  power  of  the  Devil,  in  the 
witchcraft  of  the  Middle  Ages  handed  down  to  us  in 
legends  and  by  the  poets.  He  turned  with  horror  from 
the  fate  of  Faust,  and  prayed  heaven  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  like  that  of  the  dying,  for  faith  in  God  and 
the  Virgin  Mary.  A  pure  and  radiant  light  showed 
him  the  heaven  of  Michael  Angelo  and  of  Sanzio  Urbino, 


228 


The  Magic  Skin. 


the  parting  clouds,  the  white-bearded  old  man,  the 
winged  heads,  and  a  beautiful  woman  rising  from  the 
lambent  glory.  He  comprehended,  he  grasped  the  idea 
of  those  glorious  creations  whose  human  mission  ex- 
plained to  him  his  probation  and  gave  him  hope. 

But,  as  his  eyes  came  back  to  the  foyer  of  the  opera- 
house,  he  saw,  not  the  Virgin,  but  the  odious  Euphrasia. 
The  danseuse,  with  her  light  and  supple  body  clothed 
in  a  dazzling  dress,  and  covered  with  oriental  pearls, 
went  up  to  the  impatient  old  man,  exhibiting  her  person, 
her  bold  and  insolent  brow,  her  sparkling  eyes,  to  the  en- 
vious and  calculating  crowd,  as  though  to  proclaim  the 
boundless  wealth  of  the  old  lover  whose  treasures  she 
was  dissipating.  Eaphael  recollected  the  jeering  wish 
with  which  he  had  accepted  the  fatal  present  of  the 
antiquary,  and  he  tasted  the  sweets  of  vengeance  as  he 
beheld  the  deep  humiliation  of  that  high  wisdom  whose 
overthrow  had  so  lately  seemed  impossible.  The  cen- 
tenarian greeted  Euphrasia  with  a  charnel  smile,  to 
which  she  responded  by  words  of  love  ;  he  offered  her 
his  shrunken  arm,  made  two  or  three  turns  up  and 
down  the  foyer  and  welcomed  with  delight  the  compli- 
ments and  eager  looks  bestowed  upon  his  mistress, 
without  perceiving  the  sneering  laughter  and  the  cutting 
jeers  of  which  he  was  the  object. 

"  In  what  cemetery  did  that  young  ghoul  disinter 
him?  "  cried  the  most  elegant  of  the  romanticists. 

Euphrasia  smiled.  The  speaker  was  a  young  man  with 
fair  hair  and  brilliant  blue  eyes,  slender  and  lithe  in  fig- 
ure, wearing  a  small  moustache,  a  short  frock-coat,  and 
his  hat  over  one  ear  ;  his  prominent  gift  was  a  lively 
power  of  repartee,  — the  o\\\y  language  of  his  school. 


f 

The  Magic  Skin.  229 

"  How  many  old  men,"  thought  Raphael,  "end  a 
life  of  honor  and  uprightness,  of  toil  and  virtue,  by 
such  folly  ;  see  that  one,  with  his  cold  feet,  making 
love  !  Well,  monsieur/'  he  said,  stopping  the  old  anti- 
quary and  flinging  a  glance  at  Euphrasia,  "  have  you 
forgotten  the  stern  maxims  of  your  philosophy  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  replied  the  old  Adonis,  in  a  quavering  voice, 
"Tarn  now  as  happy  as  a  young  man  !  I  took  life  at 
the  wrong  end  ;  the  whole  of  it  is  summed  up  in  an 
hour  of  love." 

At  this  moment  the  spectators  were  recalled  by  the 
stage-bell,  and  they  all  hurried  to  take  their  seats. 
Raphael  and  the  old  man  parted.  As  the  marquis 
entered  his  box  he  saw  Fedora  on  the  other  side  of  the 
theatre,  exactly  opposite  to  him.  Apparently,  she  had 
just  arrived,  and  was  throwing  her  scarf  aside,  and 
displaying  her  throat,  with  the  indescribable  movements 
of  a  beauty  engaged  in  placing  herself  becomingly.  All 
eyes  wrere  turned  to  her.  A  young  peer  of  France  ac- 
companied the  countess,  and  she  presently  asked  him 
for  the  opera-glass  she  had  allowed  him  to  carry.  The 
gesture  and  the  look  she  gave  this  new  companion  were 
enough  to  tell  Raphael  the  tyranny  to  which  he  was 
subjected.  Fascinated,  no  doubt,  as  he  himself  had 
been,  like  him  struggling  with  the  mighty  power  of 
a  true  love  against  the  cold  calculations  of  a  hard 
woman,  the  young  man  was,  in  all  probability,  suffer- 
ing the  torments  from  which  Valentin  had  now  es- 
caped. An  expression  of  joy  came  upon  Fedora's  face 
when,  after  turning  her  glass  upon  all  the  boxes  and 
rapidly  surveying  all  the  toilets,  she  was  conscious  of 
eclipsing  by  her  dress  and  by  her  beauty  the  prettiest 


230 


The  Magic  Skin. 


and  the  most  elegant  women  in  Paris.  She  began  to 
laugh,  and  show  her  white  teeth,  and  to  move  her  head, 
and  the  quivering  wreath  of  flowers  that  adorned  it. 
Her  eyes  went  from  box  to  box,  ridiculing  here  a 
turban  awkwardly  placed  on  the  head  of  a  Russian 
princess,  there  an  ugly  bonnet  which  disfigured  the 
daughter  of  a  banker.  Suddenly  she  turned  pale  as 
she  met  Raphael's  fixed  gaze  ;  her  rejected  lover  with- 
ered her  with  an  intolerable  glance  of  contempt.  None 
of  her  other  banished  lovers  denied  her  charm.  Valentin 
alone  showed  her  that  he  was  safe  from  her  seductions. 
When  Power  is  once  defied  with  impunit}^  it  is  tending 
toward  ruin.  This  maxim  is  more  deeply  engraved  in 
the  heart  of  woman  than  in  the  head  of  kings*  Fedora 
saw  in  Raphael  the  death  of  her  prestige.  A  speech  of 
his,  uttered  a  few  nights  earlier,  had  gone  the  rounds  of 
all  the  salons  in  Paris,  and  the  slash  of  its  epigram  had 
given  the  countess  a  mortal  blow.  We  can  cauterize  a 
wound,  but  we  know  no  remedy  for  the  hurt  produced 
by  speech.  All  the  women  present  were  looking  alter- 
nately at  the  marquis  and  at  the  countess,  and  Fedora 
would  gladly  at  that  moment  have  consigned  her  enemy 
to  the  dungeons  of  the  Bastille,  for  she  well  knew  that 
in  spite  of  her  talent  for  dissimulation  her  rivals  guessed 
her  sufferings. 

During  the  interlude  between  the  first  and  second  acts, 
a  lady  seated  herself  close  to  Raphael  in  the  adjoining 
box,  which  had  hitherto  been  empty.  A  murmur  of  ad- 
miration went  through  the  house.  The  sea  of  human 
faces  turned  in  a  tide  toward  her,  and  all  eyes  gazed  at 
the  beautiful  unknown.  Young  and  old  made  so  pro- 
longed a  stir  during  the  time  when  the  curtain  was  down 


The  Magic  Skin. 


231 


that  the  musicians  in  the  orchestra  turned  to  discover 
the  reason.  The  women  were  busy  with  their  opera- 
glasses,  and  the  old  men,  renewing  their  youth,  rubbed 
the  lenses  of  theirs.  But  the  enthusiasm  subsided  by 
degrees  as  the  curtain  went  up,  and  all  was  again 
orderly.  Good  society,  ashamed  of  having  yielded  to 
a  spontaneous  feeling,  returned  to  its  aristocratic  cold- 
ness and  its  polished  manners.  Rich  people  do  not  like 
to  be  surprised  and  delighted  by  anything  ;  they  try  to 
seize  at  once  on  some  defect  in  a  fine  work,  and  so 
release  themselves  from  the  vulgar  sentiment  of  admi- 
ration. A  few  men,  however,  neglecting  the  music, 
remained  lost  in  natural  and  honest  admiration  of 
Raphael's  neighbor.  Valentin  noticed  in  one  of  the 
lower  boxes  the  ignoble  and  florid  face  of  Taillefer,  who 
was  accompanied  by  Aquilina.  Next  he  saw  Emile 
standing  in  the  stalls,  and  seeming  to  say  to  him,  "  Why 
don't  you  look  at  that  beautiful  creature  beside  you  ?  " 
And  then  Rastignac,  accompanied  by  a  3Toung  woman, 
doubtless  a  widow,  who  sat  twisting  his  gloves  like  a 
man  in  despair  at  being  chained  where  he  was,  and  un- 
able to  get  nearer  to  the  enchanting  unknown. 

Raphael's  life  depended  on  a  compact,  still  unbroken, 
which  he  had  made  with  his  own  soul  ;  he  had  pledged 
himself  not  to  look  with  interest  on  any  woman.  Still 
under  the  dominion  of  the  terror  he  had  felt  in  the 
morning,  when,  on  the  mere  expression  of  a  civil  wish 
the  talisman  shrank  visibly,  he  firmly  resolved  not  to 
turn  in  the  direction  of  his  neighbor.  Seated  like  a 
duchess  with  his  back  in  the  angle  of  the  box,  he  rudely 
obstructed  his  neighbor's  view  of  half  the  stage,  and 
seemed  purposely  to  ignore  the  fact  that  a  pretty 


232 


The  Magic  Skin, 


woman  was  behind  him.  The  lady,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  much  as  he  did.  She  rested  her  elbow  on  the  edge 
of  the  box  and  looked  at  the  singers  with  her  head  at 
three  quarters,  as  if  sitting  for  her  picture.  The  two 
were  like  a  pair  of  lovers  who,  having  quarrelled  and 
turned  their  backs  on  one  another,  are  ready  to  em- 
brace at  the  first  loving  word.  Occasional^  the  light 
swan's-down  on  the  lady's  mantle  or  a  waft  of  her  hair 
touched  Raphael's  head,  and  gave  him  a  sensation 
against  which  he  struggled  bravely  ;  he  heard  the 
feminine  rustle  of  a  silken  dress,  and  felt  the  imper- 
ceptible movement  given  by  the  act  of  breathing  to 
the  shoulders  and  the  garments  of  the  hidden  woman, 
all  of  whose  sweet  being  was  suddenly  communicated 
to  Raphael  as  by  an  electric  spark,  the  lace  and  the 
swan's-down  transmitting  faithfully  to  his  shoulder  the 
delicious  warmth  of  that  other  life.  By  the  capricious 
will  of  Nature  these  two  persons,  held  apart  by  good 
manners,  separated  by  the  fear  of  death,  were  breath- 
ing as  one  being  and  perhaps  thinking  of  each  other. 
The  penetrating  perfume  of  aloes  completed  Raphael's 
subjugation.  His  excited  imagination,  roused  by  hin- 
drances which  seemed  almost  fantastic,  pictured  the 
woman  to  his  mind  in  lines  of  fire.  He  turned  ab- 
ruptly. Shocked,  no  doubt,  to  find  herself  in  such 
close  contact  with  a  stranger,  the  unknown  lady  made 
a  like  movement  ;  their  faces,  expressive  of  the  same 
thought,  were  before  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Pauline!" 

"  Monsieur  Raphael  !  " 

Petrified,  they  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  in 
silence.    Raphael  saw  Pauline  in  a  simple  but  elegant 


The  Magic  Skin. 


233 


dress.  Through  the  gauze  that  covered  her  shoulders 
a  practised  eye  could  see  the  whiteness  of  the  lily,  and 
a  shape  that  women  themselves  would  have  admired. 
Her  virginal  modesty,  her  celestial  innocence,  her 
graceful  attitude  were  all  there.  The  movement  of 
the  sleeve  that  covered  the  arm  showed  that  the  body 
was  palpitating  with  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

"  Oh,  come  to-morrow,"  she  said;  "come  to  the 
Hôtel  Saint-Quentin  and  get  your  manuscript.  I  will 
be  there  at  mid-day.    Be  punctual." 

She  rose  hastily  and  disappeared.  Raphael  thought 
of  following,  but  refrained,  lest  he  should  compromise 
her  ;  then  he  looked  at  Fedora  and  thought  her  ugly. 
Not  being  able  to  understand  or  even  hear  a  note  of 
the  music,  suffocating  in  the  close  air,  and  with  a 
swelling  heart  he  left  the  theatre  and  went  home. 

"  Jonathas,"  he  said  to  his  old  servant  as  he  was 
going  to  bed  ;  "  give  me  some  laudanum  on  a  piece  of 
sugar,  and  do  not  wake  me  till  twenty  minutes  of  twelve 
to-morrow." 

"  I  wish  to  be  loved  by  Pauline,"  he  said  the  next 
morning,  looking  fixedly  at  the  talisman  with  inde- 
scribable anxiety. 

The  Skin  made  no  movement,  — it  seemed  to  have  lost 
its  contractile  power;  doubtless  it  could  not  grant  a 
wish  that  was  already  accomplished. 

"  Ah!"  cried  Raphael,  feeling  himself  delivered  as 
from  a  leaden  mantle  which  he  had  worn  since  the  day 
on  which  he  had  received  the  fatal  gift,  "  thou  art  a 
liar  ;  thou  dost  not  obey  me  ;  the  compact  is  at  an  end. 
I  am  free  !    I  shall  live  !    It  was  all  a  miserable  joke." 

Though  he  said  these  words,  he  dared  not  believe  his 


The  Magic  Skin. 


own  thought.  He  dressed  plainly,  as  in  the  old  days, 
and  went  on  foot  to  his  former  abode,  trying  to  take  him- 
self back  to  those  happy  days  when  he  could  fearlessly 
yield  to  his  passionate  desires,  and  before  he  had  learned 
to  gauge  all  human  enjoyment.  He  walked  along  think- 
ing, not  of  the  Pauline  of  his  attic-room,  but  the  Pauline 
of  the  night  before,  that  perfect  mistress  of  whom  he 
had  dreamed,  the  brilliant,  loving,  artistic  young  girl, 
comprehending  the  poets,  comprehending  poetry  and 
living  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  —  in  a  word,  Fedora  en- 
dowed with  a  noble  soul,  or  Pauline  countess  and  mil- 
lionnaire. When  he  found  himself  on  the  broken 
doorstep  and  the  worn-out  threshold  of  that  house 
where  so  often  thoughts  of  despair  had  overwhelmed 
him,  he  was  met  by  an  old  woman  who  said,  — 

"  Are  you  Monsieur  Raphael  de  Valentin  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  good  woman,"  he  answered. 

"  You  know  your  old  room,"  she  continued  ;  "  there 's 
some  one  expecting  you.*' 

u  Is  the  hôtel  still  kept  by  Madame  Gandin?" 

"  Oh,  no,  monsieur;  Madame  Gaudin  is  now  a 
baroness.  She  lives  in  a  beautiful  house  of  her  own 
across  the  river.  Her  husband  has  returned.  Good- 
ness !  he  brought  back  I  don't  know  how  much  money. 
They  say  she  has  got  enough  to  bu}'  up  the  whole  quar- 
tier Saint-Jacques  if  she  liked.  She  gave  me  her  busi- 
ness here  and  the  remainder  of  her  lease  gratis.  Ah, 
she  's  a  good  woman.  She  9 s  not  a  bit  prouder  to-day 
than  she  was  yesterday." 

Eaphael  ran  lightly  up  to  his  garret,  and  as  he  reached 
the  last  flight  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  piano.  Pauline 
was  there,  modestly  attired  in  a  cambric  dress  ;  but  the 


The  Magic  Skin, 


235 


fashion  of  it,  the  hat,  the  gloves,  the  shawl  thrown 
carelessly  on  the  bed,  all  told  of  wealth. 

"  Ah,  here  you  are,"  cried  Pauline,  turning  her  head 
and  rising  with  a  childlike  movement  of  delight. 

Raphael  sat  down  by  her,  blushing,  abashed,  and 
happy.    He  looked  at  her  and  said  nothing. 

uWhydid3'ou  leave  us?"  she  asked,  lowering  her 
eyes  as  the  color  rose  in  her  cheeks.  "  What  became 
of  you?" 

"  Ah,  Pauline,  I  have  been,  I  still  am  yevy  unhapp}^." 

"  I  felt  it,"  she  cried,  much  moved.  "  I  guessed  it 
last  night  when  I  saw  you  so  well  dressed,  so  rich  ap- 
parently, but  in  reality — »  tell  me,  Monsieur  Raphael, 
is  it  as  it  used  to  be  ?  " 

Valentin  could  not  restrain  himself;  tears  filled  his 
e}'es  as  he  cried  out,  "  Pauline  !  — I  —  "  He  could  say 
no  more,  but  his  eyes  sparkled  with  love,  his  heart  was 
in  the  look  he  gave  her. 

"  Oh,  he  loves  me,  he  loves  me,"  cried  Pauline. 

Raphael  made  a  sign  with  his  head,  for  he  felt  him- 
self unable  to  utter  a  word.  As  she  saw  it,  the  young 
girl  took  his  hand,  pressed  it,  and  said  to  him,  half 
laughing,  half  sobbing  :  — 

"  Rich,  rich,  happy,  rich  !  thy  Pauline  is  rich.  But 
I  ought  to  be  poor  this  day  ;  a  thousand  times  have  I 
declared  that  I  would  give  the  wTealth  of  the  universe  to 
hear  him  say  4 1  love  thee  !  '  Oh,  my  Raphael  !  I  have 
millions.  Luxury  is  dear  to  thee  and  thou  shalt  have  it  ; 
but  thou  must  love  my  heart  also,  it  is  so  full  of  love  for 
thee.  Let  me  tell  thee  all.  My  father  has  returned.  I 
am  an  heiress.  My  parents  allow  me  to  decide  m}r  own 
fate.    I  am  free,  free,  —  dost  thou  understand  me  ?  " 


236 


The  Magic  Skin. 


Raphael  held  her  hands  in  a  sort  of  wild  delirium, 
kissing  them  so  passionately,  so  eagerly,  that  his  kisses 
seemed  like  a  convulsion.  Pauline  disengaged  her  hands 
and  threw  them  on  his  shoulders,  holding  him  ;  they  un- 
derstood each  other,  and  heart  to  heart  they  embraced 
with  that  sacred,  delicious  fervor,  free  from  all  ulterior 
thought,  which  is  granted  to  one  only  kiss,  the  first  kiss, 
by  which  two  souls  take  possession  of  each  other. 

"  Ah,"  cried  Pauline,  falling  back  in  her  chair,  "  I 
will  never  leave  thee.  —  How  is  it  that  I  am  so  bold?  n 
she  added,  blushing. 

"  Bold,  my  Pauline!  Oh,  fear  nothing;  it  is  love, 
true  love,  deep,  eternal  as  my  own  ;  tell  me,  is  it  not?" 

"  Oh,  speak,  speak,  speak,"  she  said;  "too  long 
thy  lips  were  mute  to  me." 

"  Didst  thou  love  me  in  those  early  days?" 

"  Ah,  God  !  did  I  not  love  him  ?  Many  a  time  have 
I  wept  there  as  I  put  thy  room  in  order,  grieving  for  thy 
poverty  and  mine.  I  would  have  sold  myself  to  a  demon 
could  1  have  spared  thee  grief.  To-day.  my  Raphael.  — 
for  thou  art  mine,  mine  that  dear  head,  mine  thy  heart  ! 
Oh,  yes,  thy  heart,  thy  heart  above  all,  eternal  wealth  ! 
Ah,  where  am  I  ;  what  was  I  saying?  "  she  cried,  after 
a  pause.  i;  I  know,  it  was  this,  —  we  have  three,  four 
five  millions.  If  I  were  poor,  I  might  desire  to  bear 
thy  name,  to  be  thy  wife  ;  but  now,  at  this  moment,  I 
would  sacrifice  the  whole  world  to  thee.  I  would  be 
ever  and  always  thy  servant.  Raphael,  if  to-day  I  offer 
thee  my  heart,  my  love,  my  fortune,  I  give  thee  no  more 
than  what  I  gave  that  clay  when  I  placed  there,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  table-drawer,  ,;  a  certain  five-franc 
piece.    Oh,  what  grief  thy  joy  caused  me  that  day." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


237 


"  Why  art  thou  rich?  "  cried  Raphael.  "  Why  hast 
thou  no  vanity,  no  self,  — I  can  do  nothing  for  thee." 

He  wrung  his  hands  with  happiness,  despair,  and  love. 

"  I  know  thee,  celestial  soul  !  To  be  my  wife, 
Madame  la  Marquise  de  Valentin,  to  have  that  title 
and  my  wealth  is  less  to  thee  —  " 

"  — than  a  single  hair  of  thine,"  she  cried. 

"  I  too  have  millions;  but  what  is  wealth  to  us? 
Ah  !  I  have  my  life  —  my  life  to  offer  thee  ;  take  it." 

"  Thy  love,  my  Raphael,  is  more  to  me  than  the 
whole  universe.  Why,  thy  very  thought  is  mine  ;  am 
I  not  in  truth  the  happiest  of  the  happy?  " 

"  Can  we  be  overheard?"  said  Raphael. 

"  Nay,  there  is  no  one,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty 
gesture. 

"  Then  come  !  "  he  cried,  opening  his  arms  to  her. 

She  sprang  to  him  and  clasped  her  hands  around  his 
neck.  "Kiss  me,"  she  said,  "  for  all  the  griefs  thou 
hast  made  me  suffer  ;  for  all  the  suffering  thy  joys 
once  gave  me  ;  for  all  the  nights  I  spent  upon  my 
screens." 

"  Thy  screens?" 

u  Since  we  are  rich,  my  treasure,  I  can  tell  thee  all. 
Poor  darling  !  how  easy  it  is  to  deceive  a  man  of  genius. 
Can  white  waistcoats  and  clean  shirts  be  had  daily  for 
three  francs  of  washing  a  month?  And  you  drank 
twice  as  much  milk  as  your  money  could  buy.  Oh  !  I 
tricked  you  in  everything,  —  fuel,  oil,  money  even.  Oh, 
my  Raphael,  don't  take  me  for  your  wife,"  she  cried, 
laughing,  "  I  am  too  wily." 

"  But  how  did  you  manage  it?  " 

"  I  painted  till  two  o'clock  every  night,"  she  said, 


238 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  and  I  divided  the  price  of  my  screens  between  my 
mother  and  you." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  bewildered 
with  joy  and  love. 

"Oh!"  cried  Raphael.  "  We  shall  pay  for  this 
happiness  by  some  frightful  grief — " 

"Are  you  married?"  cried  Pauline.  "Ah!  I  will 
not  yield  thee  to  any  woman." 

"  I  am  free,  my  treasure." 

"  Free  !  "  she  repeated.    "Free,  and  mine  !  " 

She  slipped  to  her  knees,  clasping  her  hands  and 
looking  up  to  Raphael  with  passionate  devotion. 

"  I  fear  I  am  going  mad.  How  noble  thou  art  !  "  she 
cried,  passing  her  hand  through  his  blond  hair.  "  Ah  ! 
how  stupid  she  was,  that  countess  of  thine,  Fedora! 
What  delight  it  gave  me  last  night  to  please  those 
people  at  the  theatre.  She  was  never  honored  with  such 
a  tribute.  Listen,  dearest  ;  when  my  shoulder  touched 
thy  arm,  a  voice  cried  within  me,  He  is  there!  I 
turned  and  saw  thee  !  Oh,  I  fled  away,  for  the  desire 
seized  me  to  fall  upon  thy  neck  in  face  of  all  the 
world." 

"Thou  art  happy  in  being  able  to  speak,"  cried 
Raphael  ;  "as  for  me,  my  heart  is  in  a  vice.  I  want 
to  weep,  *  and  I  cannot.  No,  leave  me  thy  hand. 
Would  that  I  could  stay  beside  thee  all  my  life,  look- 
ing at  thee  thus,  happy  —  happy  and  content." 

"Ah  !  say  those  words  again,  my  love." 

"What  are  words?"  said  Valentin,  letting  a  hot 
tear  fall  upon  Pauline's  hand.  "  Later  I  will  try  to  tell 
thee  of  my  love  ;  now  I  can  but  feel  it." 

"Oh  !  "  she  cried,  "  that  noble  soul,  that  lofty  genius, 


The  Magie  Skin. 


239 


that  heart  I  know  so  well,  are  mine,  all  mine,  even  as  I 
am  his  —  " 

" — forever  and  ever,  my  gentle  creature,"  said 
Eaphael,  deeply  moved.  "  Thou  wilt  he  my  wife,  my 
guardian  spirit.  Thy  presence  has  always  driven  away 
my  griefs  and  refreshed  my  soul  ;  at  this  moment  thy 
smile  does,  as  it  were,  purify  me.  I  believe  a  new  life 
opens  to  me.  The  cruel  past  and  my  sad  follies  seem 
to  me  like  evil  dreams.  Beside  thee  I  am  pure.  I 
breathe  the  air  of  happiness.  Oh  !  be  with  me  ever," 
he  cried,  pressing  her  solemnly  to  his  beating  heart. 

"  Let  death  come  now,"  cried  Pauline,  in  ecstasy, 
"for  I  have  lived." 

Happy  he  who  can  divine  their  joys,  for  he  has  known 
them. 

u  My  Raphael,"  said  Pauline,  after  a  short  silence. 
"I  should  like  to  think  that  no  one  could  ever  enter 
this  dear  garret." 

"Then  we  must  wall  up  the  door,  put  iron  bars  to 
the  window,  and  buy  the  house,"  said  the  marquis. 

66  Ah,  so  we  will,"  she  cried  ;  then  after  a  moment's 
silence,  she  added,  "  thy  manuscripts  —  we  have  for- 
gotten them." 

And  they  both  laughed  with  innocent  delight. 

"  Bah  !  what  care  I  for  all  the  science  of  the  world," 
cried  Raphael. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  but  think  of  fame." 

u  Thou  art  my  fame  !  "  — 

66  He  was  unhappy  when  he  wrote  those  words,"  she 
said,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  manuscript. 
"My  Pauline—" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  thy  Pauline.    Well,  what  then?" 


240 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  Where  do  you  live?  " 

"  Eue  Saint-Lazare,  and  thou?" 

u  Rue  de  Varennes." 

"  We  shall  be  so  far  from  each  other  until —  "  She 
stopped  and  looked  at  her  lover  with  a  shy,  coquettish 
air. 

"  But,"  said  Raphael,  u  it  can  only  be  for  a  week  or 
two  at  most  that  we  are  separated." 

"  Can  it  be?  shall  we  be  married  in  fifteen  days?" 
she  sprang  up  like  a  child.  "  Ah,  but  I  am  a  bad  daugh- 
ter," she  said.  "  I  think  no  more  of  father,  mother,  — 
I  think  of  nothing  in  the  world  but  thee.  Thou  dost  not 
know,  poor  darling,  that  my  father  is  ill.  He  returned 
from  the  Indies  so  feeble  that  he  came  near  dying  at 
Havre,  where  my  mother  and  I  went  to  meet  him.  Oh, 
heavens  !  "  she  cried  looking  at  her  watch  ;  "  it  is  three 
o'clock.  I  must  be  back  when  he  wakes  up  at  four.  I 
am  mistress  of  the  house,  for  my  dear  mother  does  all 
I  wish,  and  my  father  adores  me  ;  but  I  will  never  abuse 
their  goodness,  it  would  be  wrong.  Poor  father!  he 
sent  me  to  the  opera  last  night.  You  will  come  and 
see  him  to-morrow,  will  3-ou  not?" 

"  Will  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Valentin  do  me  the 
honor  to  take  my  arm  ?  " 

"Let  me  carry  off  the  key  of  this  dear  room,"  she 
said.    u  Our  treasure  is  a  palace,  is  it  not?" 

"  Pauline,  one  more  kiss." 

"  A  thousand  I  Ah,  my  love,"  she  said,  looking  at 
Raphael,  u  will  it  be  ever  thus,  or  am  I  dreaming?  " 

They  slowly  descended  the  stairs  ;  and  thus  united, 
step  by  step,  trembling  under  the  weight  of  the  same 
happiness,  pressing  closely  together  like  doves,  they 


The  Magic  Shin. 


241 


reached  the  place  de  la  Sorbonne,  where  Pauline's  car- 
riage was  in  waiting. 

"  I  wish  to  go  home  with  you,"  she  cried.  "  I  want 
to  see  your  room,  your  study  ;  to  sit  beside  the  table 
at  which  you  work.  It  will  seem  like  old  times,"  she 
added,  blushing.  "  Joseph,"  she  said  to  the  footman, 
"  I  shall  go  to  the  rue  de  Varennes  before  returning 
home.  It  is  a  quarter  past  three  ;  I  must  be  home  at 
four.    Tell  George  to  press  the  horses." 

And  the  two  lovers  were  soon  at  the  Hôtel  Valentin. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to  have  seen  it  all,"  cried  Pau- 
line, stroking  the  silken  curtains  which  draped  the  bed. 
"  I  can  now  think  of  thy  dear  head  upon  that  pillow. 
Tell  me,  Raphael,  did  any  one  advise  thee  how  to 
furnish  these  rooms  ?  " 

"No  one." 

6 'Truly?   No  woman?" 
"Pauline!" 

"  I  feel  a  dreadful  jealousy.  What  exquisite  taste 
thou  hast  ;  to-morrow  I  will  make  my  room  like  thine." 

Raphael,  beside  himself  with  happiness,  caught  her 
in  his  arms. 

"  And  now  let  me  go  to  my  father,"  she  said. 

"I  shall  go  with  you,"  cried  Valentin,  "let  us  not 
be  parted  more  than  we  can  help.'* 

"  How  loving  you  are  !  " 

"  Are  you  not  my  life  ?  " 

It  were  wearisome  indeed  to  recount  the  pretty  elo- 
quence of  love,  to  which  the  tones,  the  looks,  the  ges- 
tures alone  give  value.  Valentin  took  Pauline  to  her 
home,  and  then  returned  to  his,  with  a  heart  as  full 
of  pleasure  as  a  man  can  feel  and  bear  in  this  low 

16 


242 


The  Magic  Skin. 


world.  When  he  was  once  more  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair beside  the  fire,  thinking  of  the  sudden  and  com- 
plete realization  of  his  highest  hopes,  a  chill  thought 
crossed  his  mind  like  the  steel  of  a  knife  cutting  through 
his  breast.  He  looked  up  at  the  Magic  Skin  ;  it  had 
shrunk.  He  uttered  the  great  French  oath,  but  with- 
out the  Jesuitical  reservations  of  the  Abbesse  des  An- 
douillettes,  leaned  his  head  on  the  back  of  his  chair, 
and  remained  long  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  drapery 
of  a  window,  but  without  seeing  anything. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  cried,  at  length.  "  What,  every 
desire,  all?    Oh,  poor  Pauline  !  " 

He  took  a  pair  of  compasses  and  measured  how  much 
of  life  that  morning's  joy  had  cost  him. 

" 1  have  but  two  months  more,"  he  said. 

A  cold  sweat  issued  from  his  pores  ;  suddenly  he 
obeyed  an  irrepressible  impulse  of  anger  and  seized 
the  Skin,  crying  out,  u  I  am  a  fool  !  "  Then  he  rushed 
from  the  house  and  through  the  garden,  and  flung  the 
talisman  to  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

"Vogue  la  galère/"  he  cried;  tk  come  what  may. 
To  the  devil  with  such  nonsense  !  " 

Raphael  now  abandoned  himself  to  the  joy  of  loving, 
and  lived  heart  to  heart  with  his  Pauline.  Their  mar- 
riage, retarded  by  a  few  difficulties,  uninteresting  to 
the  reader,  took  place  early  in  March.  They  had  tried 
each  other  and  felt  no  doubts  ;  happiness  revealed  to 
them  the  strength  of  their  affection,  and  no  two  souls, 
no  two  natures  were  ever  more  perfectly  united  than 
theirs  by  love.  Studying  themselves,  they  grew  to  love 
each  other  better  ;  on  either  side  the  same  delicacy,  the 
same  modesty,  the  same  enjoyments  of  the  soul,  —  the 


The  Magic  Skin. 


243 


sweetest  of  all  enjoyments,  that  of  the  angels.  No 
clouds  were  in  their  sky  ;  by  turns  the  wishes  of  the 
one  were  a  law  to  the  other.  Both  were  rich  ;  there 
were  no  caprices  they  could  not  satisfy,  and  therefore 
they  had  no  caprices.  An  exquisite  taste,  a  feeling  for 
the  beautiful,  a  true  sense  of  poetry  was  in  the  nature 
of  the  wife  ;  despising  the  baubles  of  wealth,  one  smile 
of  her  lover  was  more  to  her  than  the  pearls  of  Ormuz. 
Muslin  and  flowers  were  her  choicest  adornment.  B}T 
mutual  consent  they  avoided  society,  for  solitude  was 
to  them  so  fruitful,  so  beautiful.  People  saw  the 
charming  pair  at  the  opera  or  at  the  theatres,  and  if 
some  gossip  ran  the  rounds  of  the  salons,  soon  the  rush 
of  events  caused  them  to  be  forgotten,  and  left  alone 
to  their  happiness. 

One  morning  when  the  weather  had  grown  warm 
enough  to  give  promise  of  the  joys  of  spring,  Pauline 
and  Raphael  were  breakfasting  in  a  small  conserva- 
tory, a  sort  of  salon  filled  with  flowers,  on  a  level  with 
the  garden.  The  sun's  rays  falling  through  rare  shrubs 
warmed  the  atmosphere  ;  the  contrasting  colors  of  the 
leafage,  the  clustering  flowers,  and  the  capricious  varia- 
tions of  light  and  shade,  were  enlivening  to  the  eye. 
While  all  Paris  was  still  warming  itself  by  cheerless 
hearths,  the  young  couple  were  laughing  in  a  bower 
of  camellias  and  heaths  and  lilacs.  Their  joyous  heads 
were  side  by  side  among  narcissus  and  lilies  of  the  val- 
ley and  Bengal  roses.  The  floor  of  the  conservatory 
was  covered  with  an  African  mat,  colored  like  a  carpet. 
The  walls,  hung  with  green  canvas,  showed  not  a  trace 
of  dampness.  The  furniture  was  apparently  of  rough 
wood,  but  the  bark  shone  with  cleanliness.    A  kitten 


244  The  Magic  Skin. 


crouching  on  the  table,  attracted  by  the  scent  of  the 
milk,  allowed  Pauline  to  paint  its  whiskers  with  coffee 
as  she  kept  it  at  arm's  length  from  the  cream,  tantaliz- 
ing it  to  continue  the  play,  laughing  with  all  her  heart 
at  its  antics,  and  endeavoring  to  prevent  Raphael  from 
reading  the  newspaper,  which  had  dropped  many  times 
from  his  hand.  The  pretty  morning  scene  was  full  of 
inexpressible  happiness,  like  all  else  that  is  natural  and 
true  and  ga}\  Raphael  pretended  to  read  his  paper, 
but  he  was  all  the  while  furtively  watching  Pauline  as 
she  frolicked  with  the  cat,  —  his  Pauline,  wrapped  in  a 
long  white  morning  dress,  which  scarcely  concealed  her 
shape,  his  own  Pauline,  with  her  hair  flowing  and  her 
little  white  feet  veined  with  blue  in  their  velvet  slip- 
pers. Charming  in  dishabille,  fairy-like  as  a  figure  of 
Westell's,  she  was  girl  and  woman  both,  perhaps  more 
girl  than  woman  ;  her  happiness  was  without  alloy,  and 
she  knew  love  only  through  its  earlier  joys. 

Just  as  Raphael,  wholly  absorbed  in  his  sweet  reverie, 
dropped  his  journal  for  the  tenth  time,  Pauline  caught 
it,  crumpled  it  into  a  ball  and  flung  it  into  the  garden, 
where  it  rolled,  like  the  politics  it  contained,  over  and 
over  upon  itself,  pursued  by  the  kitten.  When  Ra- 
phael, roused  by  the  scene,  made  a  movement  to  pick 
up  his  paper,  their  joyous  laughter  broke  forth  and  died 
away,  and  came  again  like  the  song  of  birds. 

"I  am  jealous  of  that  newspaper,"  cried  Pauline, 
wiping  the  tears  her  merry  laughter  had  occasioned. 
"It  is  felony,"  she  asserted,  becoming  once  more  a 
woman,  "  to  read  those  Russian  proclamations  in  my 
presence,  and  to  prefer  the  prose  of  the  Emperor 
Nicholas  to  the  words  and  looks  of  love." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


245 


"I  was  not  reading,  my  love,  my  darling;  I  was 
looking  at  you." 

At  this  moment  the  heavy  step  of  the  gardener,  grind- 
ing on  the  gravel,  was  heard  near  the  greenhouse. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Monsieur  le  marquis,  if  I  interrupt 
you  and  madame  ;  but  I  bring  you  a  curiosity,  the  like 
of  which  I  never  saw.  In  drawing  a  bucket  of  water 
just  now  I  brought  up  a  queer  marine  plant.  Here  it  is. 
Strange,  though  it  lives  in  the  water,  it  is  n't  wet  nor 
even  damp  ;  it  is  as  dry  as  a  bit  of  wood,  and  not  the 
least  swollen.  As  Monsieur  le  marquis  knows  so  much, 
I  thought  it  would  interest  him." 

So  saying,  the  man  showed  Raphael  the  inexorable 
Skin,  now  reduced  to  a  surface  of  six  square  inches. 

u  Thank  you,  Vanière,"  said  Raphael  ;  "  the  thing  is 
very  curious." 

"My  angel,  what  is  the  matter?"  cried  Pauline; 
46  you  have  turned  pale." 

"  Leave  us,  Vanière." 

"Your  voice  frightens  me,"  cried  the  young  girl; 
"  it  is  so  strangely  altered.  What  is  it?  How  do  you 
feel?  Where  is  the  trouble?  Oh,  you  are  ill  !  A  doc- 
tor !  "  she  cried.    "  Jonathas,  help  !  " 

"  My  Pauline,  hush,"  answered  Raphael,  recovering 
his  presence  of  mind.  "  Let  us  leave  this  place  ;  there 
is  a  flower  somewhere  about,  whose  perfume  turned  me 
faint.    Perhaps  it  was  that  verbena." 

Pauline  darted  on  the  harmless  plant,  seized  it  by  the 
stem,  and  flung  it  into  the  garden. 

"Oh,  angel!"  she  cried,  straining  Raphael  to  her 
breast  in  a  clasp  as  strong  as  love  itself,  and  putting  her 
coral  lips  with  plaintive  coquetry  to  his,  "  as  I  saw  thee 


246 


The  Magic  Shin, 


turning  faint,  I  knew  I  could  not  survive  thee.  Thy  life 
is  my  life,  Raphael  :  feel,  pass  thy  hand  along  my  back  ; 
I  felt  a  death-blow  there  ;  I  am  all  cold.  — Thy  lips  are 
burning,  but  thy  hand  is  ice,"  she  added. 

u  Silly  girl,"  cried  Raphael. 

"  Why  those  tears?    Ah,  let  me  drink  them  !  " 

"  Oh,  Pauline,  Pauline,  we  love  each  other  too  well." 

u  Something  strange  is  happening  within  thee,  Ra- 
phael. Be  true  with  me,  for  I  shall  know  thy  secret 
soon.    Give  me  that,"  she  said,  taking  the  Magic  Skin. 

"  It  is  my  death,"  cried  the  young  man,  casting  a  look 
of  horror  at  the  talisman. 

"  Oh,  what  a  change  in  his  voice  !  "  exclaimed  Pauline, 
letting  fall  the  fatal  symbol. 

"  Dost  thou  love  me?  "  he  said. 

"  Do  I  love  thee?    Canst  thou  ask  it?" 

u  Then  leave  me,  leave  me.    Go  !  " 

The  poor  girl  left  him. 

"  Can  it  be,"  cried  Raphael  when  alone,  u  that  in 
this  age  of  discovery,  when  we  have  even  learned  that 
diamonds  are  crystals  of  carbon,  an  epoch  when  all 
things  are  explained,  when  the  police  would  indict  a 
new  Messiah  before  the  courts  and  submit  his  miracles 
to  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  a  day  when  the  world  be- 
lieves in  nothing  but  the  deeds  of  a  notary,  can  it  be 
that  I  am  believing  —  I  —  in  a  sort  of  Mené,  Mené, 
Tekel,  Upharsin  ?  No,  by  God  himself,  I  will  not  think 
that  the  All-Powerful  can  find  pleasure  in  torturing  a 
human  soul.    I  will  consult  some  man  of  science." 

Before  long  Raphael  was  standing  between  the  Wine 
Market,  an  immense  collection  of  hogsheads,  and  the 


The  Magic  Skin. 


247 


Salpêtrière,  an  immense  seminary  of  drunkards,  at  a 
certain  spot  where,  in  a  little  pool,  a  number  of  ducks 
were  disporting  themselves,  all  remarkable  as  rare 
species,  whose  prismatic  colors,  like  the  windows  of  a 
cathedral,  wrere  sparkling  in  the  rays  of  the  sun.  All 
the  ducks  of  the  world  were  there,  quacking,  dabbling, 
diving,  like  a  duck  parliament  assembled  against  its 
will,  but  happily  not  possessed  of  a  charter  or  political 
principles,  and  living  out  their  days  undisturbed  by  the 
guns  of  sportsmen,  under  the  eyes  of  naturalists,  who 
occasionally  looked  them  over. 

"  Here  is  Monsieur  Lavrille,"  said  one  of  the  janitors 
of  the  establishment  to  Raphael,  who  had  asked  to  see 
the  great  pontiff  of  zoology. 

The  marquis  now  beheld  a  little  man  plunged  in  deep 
meditation  over  the  study  of  a  pair  of  ducks.  This 
learned  professor,  who  was  of  middle  age,  had  a  natu- 
rally gentle  face,  made  still  more  kindly  b}-  an  obliging 
manner  ;  but  the  chief  expression  of  his  person  was 
scientific  preoccupation.  His  wig,  perpetually  scratched 
and  shoved  to  one  side,  showed  a  line  of  white  hair  be- 
low it,  and  seemed  to  indicate  a  fury  of  research  which, 
like  all  other  passions,  tears  us  so  completely  from  the 
things  of  life,  that  we  even  lose  the  consciousness  of 
this  self.  Raphael,  a  student  and  a  man  of  science, 
admired  the  naturalist,  whose  days  and  nights  were 
consecrated  to  the  advancement  of  human  knowledge, 
whose  ver}T  errors  might  be  said  to  be  the  glory  of 
France  ;  a  fashionable  lady,  however,  would  have 
laughed  at  the  solution  of  contiguity  between  the 
breeches  and  the  striped  waistcoat  of  the  learned 
man,  an  interstice  chastely  filled  up  by  a  shirt  con- 


248 


The  Magic  Skin. 


siderably  rumpled  by  his  exertions  as  he  bent  over,  and 
kneeled  down,  and  rose  up  at  the  mercy  of  his  zoological 
investigations. 

After  a  few  opening  remarks  by  wa}T  of  courtesy, 
Raphael  thought  it  onty  politic  to  pay  Monsieur  Lavrille 
a  commonplace  compliment  upon  his  ducks. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  are  rich  in  ducks/'  said  the  naturalist. 
"The  genus  is,  as  you  are  no  doubt  aware,  the  most 
prolific  in  the  order  of  palmipeds.  It  begins  with  the 
swan  and  ends  with  the  zinzin  duck,  and  comprises 
one  hundred  and  thirtj^- seven  varieties  of  perfectly  dis- 
tinct individuals,  all  having  their  own  name,  their  man- 
ners and  customs,  their  habitation,  their  physiognomy, 
and  no  more  resembling  one  another  than  we  resemble 
negroes.  In  fact,  monsieur,  when  we  eat  a  duck  we 
have  little  idea  what  that  involves  —  "  He  interrupted 
himself  to  watch  a  pretty  little  creature  that  was  wad- 
dling up  the  slope  out  of  the  pool.  "  You  see  there 
Buffon's  cravatted  goose,  poor  child  of  Canada,  come 
from  afar  to  show  us  his  gray  and  brown  plumage  and 
his  jaunty  white  neck-cloth.  Look  !  he  is  scratching 
himself.  There's  the  famous  down  goose,  in  other 
words,  the  Eider-duck,  beneath  whose  quilts  our  ladies 
of  fashion  lie;  isn't  she  pretty?  Who  wouldn't  ad- 
mire that  blush- white  breast  of  hers,  and  the  green 
bill  ?  I  have  just  mated  two  species  which  I  have  long 
despaired  of  breeding  from,  and  I  await  the  result  im- 
patiently. I  hope  to  obtain  a  hundred  and  thirtj'-eighth 
species,  to  which  perhaps  my  name  may  be  given.  There 
they  are,"  he  said,  pointing  out  two  ducks.  "  One  is  the 
laughing  goose  {anas  albifrons),  the  other  is  the  great 
whistling  duck  (anas  rufina  of  Buffon).    I  hesitated 


The  Magic  Skin. 


249 


long  between  the  whistling  duck,  that  duck  with  the 
wrhite  irides,  and  the  shoveller-duck  (anas  clypeata). 
See,  there's  the  shoveller,  that  big  chestnut-brown 
fellow,  with  the  glossy  green  throat  so  coquettishly 
iridescent.  But  the  whistler  was  crested,  monsieur, 
and  you  can  easily  understand  that  that  carried  the 
day.  All  we  want  to  complete  the  collection  is  the 
variegated  duck  with  a  black  cap.  Our  gentlemen  are 
unanimous  in  declaring  that  duck  to  be  only  a  hybrid 
of  the  teal,  with  a  crooked  bill.  As  for  me  —  "  He 
made  a  gesture  equally  expressive  of  the  modesty  and 
the  pride  of  learning,  —  pride  full  of  obstinacy,  modesty 
replete  with  self-sufficiency,  ■ —  "  I  don't  think  so.  You 
see,  my  dear  monsieur,  we  don't  waste  our  time  on 
amusements  here.  At  this  very  moment  I  am  busy 
with  a  monograph  on  the  genus  duck.  But  neverthe- 
less I  am  at  your  service." 

As  they  walked  toward  a  rather  pretty  house  in  the 
rue  de  Buffon,  Raphael  produced  the  Magic  Skin  and 
showed  it  to  Monsieur  Lavrille. 

"  I  know  that  product,"  said  the  man  of  science, 
after  levelling  his  eye-glass  on  the  talisman.  "It  is 
often  used  to  cover  cases.  Shagreen  is  a  very  ancient 
article.  In  these  days  manufacturers  prefer  to  use  the 
skin  of  the  raja  sephe?i,  which  is,  as  you  doubtless 
know,  the  shark  of  the  Red  Sea." 

"  But  this,  monsieur,  if  you  will  have  the  great  kind- 
ness to  —  " 

"  This,"  said  the  learned  man,  interrupting  Raphael, 
"  is  another  thing  altogether.  Between  the  raja  sephen 
and  the  onagra  there  is,  I  admit,  all  the  difference  that 
there  is  between  earth  and  ocean,  between  fish  and 


250 


The  Magic  Skin. 


quadruped.  Nevertheless  the  fish-skin  is  harder  than 
shagreen.  This,"  he  continued,  fingering  the  talisman, 
"  is,  as  you  doubtless  know,  one  of  the  most  curious 
products  of  zoologj7." 

"  Explain  it,"  said  Raphael. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  the  man  of  science,  plung- 
ing into  his  armchair,  "  it  is  the  skin  of  an  ass." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  There  exists  in  Persia,"  resumed  the  naturalist, 
"  an  extremely  rare  ass,  the  onager  of  the  ancients, 
equus  asi?iics,  the  koulan  of  the  Tartars.  Pierre- 
Simon  Pallas  went  to  those  regions  to  examine  it;  he 
gave  it  to  science.  Indeed,  the  animal  had  long  been 
regarded  as  mythical  or  extinct.  It  is  mentioned,  as 
you  know,  in  Hoty  Scripture  ;  Moses  forbade  that  it 
should  breed  with  its  congeners.  But  the  wild  ass  is 
still  more  famous  for  its  singular  remedial  properties, 
often  alluded  to  by  the  Biblical  prophets,  and  which 
Pallas  himself  mentions,  as  you  doubtless  remember, 
in  his  'Act:  Petrop,'  volume  II.,  where  he  says  they 
are  still  accepted  among  the  Persians  and  Afghans  as 
a  panacea  for  sciatic  gout,  and  all  diseases  of  the 
lumbar  regions.  We  poor  Frenchmen  would  be  glad 
to  know  of  that.  The  Museum  does  not  possess  a 
single  onager.  What  a  splendid  animal  !  "  cried  the 
man  of  science.  "Full  of  mystery  !  his  eye  is  fur- 
nished with  a  species  of  reflector,  to  which  the  Orientals 
attribute  a  gift  of  fascination  ;  his  coat  is  more  exquis- 
itely shining  than  that  of  our  best-groomed  horses  ;  it 
is  striped  with  tawny  lines,  and  bears  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  the  zebra.  The  animal's  hair  is  soft  and 
smooth,  and  unctuous  to  the  touch  ;  his  sight  is  fully 


The  Magic  Skin. 


251 


equal  in  reach  and  precision  to  a  man's  ;  he  is  rather 
larger  than  our  finest  domestic  ass,  and  possesses  ex- 
traordinary courage.  If  by  chance  he  is  overtaken  or 
surprised,  he  defends  himself  with  remarkable  intelli- 
gence against  other  wild  beasts  ;  as  for  the  rapidity 
with  which  he  moves,  it  can  be  compared  only  to  the 
flight  of  birds.  An  onager,  monsieur,  can  out-run 
the  fleetest  Arab  or  Persian  horses.  According  to  the 
father  of  the  conscientious  doctor,  Niebuhr,  whose  re- 
cent death,  as  you  doubtless  know,  we  now  deplore, 
the  ordinary  pace  of  these  wonderful  creatures  is  seven 
thousand  geometric  strides  per  hour.  Our  degenerate 
donkeys  give  no  idea  of  this  proud,  daring  animal.  He 
is  nimble  in  action,  liveljT,  intelligent,  shrewd,  graceful 
in  appearance  and  in  movement.  He  is,  in  fact,  the 
zoological  king  of  the  East.  Turkish  and  Persian  su- 
perstitions both  ascribe  to  him  a  mysterious  origin,  and 
the  name  of  Solomon  is  mingled  with  the  traditions 
that  are  current  in  Thibet  and  Tartary  about  the  prow- 
ess of  the  noble  animal.  A  tamed  wild  ass  would  be 
worth  vast  sums  of  money  ;  it  is  nearly  impossible  to 
capture  them  among  their  mountain  fastnesses,  where 
they  spring  from  rock  to  rock  like  goats,  or  seem  to 
fly  like  birds.  The  fable  of  Pegasus,  the  winged  horse, 
no  doubt  took  its  rise  from  them.  TJie  saddle  asses, 
obtained  in  Persia  by  mating  the  female  ass  with  a 
tamed  onager,  are  dyed  red  according  to  immemorial 
tradition  ;  and  that  custom  is  perhaps  at  the  bottom  of 
our  proverb,  4  Wicked  as  a  red  ass.'  At  an  epoch 
when  natural  histor}T  was  at  a  low  ebb  in  France,  some 
traveller  must,  I  think,  have  brought  back  with  him 
one  of  these  curiously  painted  animals,  who  became 


252 


The  Magic  Skin. 


impatient  in  confinement,  —  hence  the  sa}ing.  The 
leather  which  you  show  me,"  continued  the  learned 
man,  "  is  made  from  the  skin  of  the  wild  ass.  There 
is  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  origin  of  its  name, 
'  shagreen.'  Some  say  that  it  comes  from  the  Turkish 
word  Saghri,  signifying  the  rump  of  an  ass  ;  others 
insist  that  the  same  word  is  the  name  of  a  town,  where 
the  hide  of  the  wild  ass  was  first  subjected  to  the 
chemical  preparation  so  well  described  by  Pallas,  and 
which  gives  it  the  granulated  surface  we  admire  so 
much  :  but  Monsieur  Martellens  writes  me  that  SaaghH, 
or  Chaagri,  is  a  rivulet." 

u  Monsieur,  I  thank  you  for  giving  me  all  this  in- 
formation, which  would  furnish  admirable  notes  to 
some  Dom  Calmet,  if  Benedictines  still  existed  ;  but  I 
have  the  honor  to  point  out  to  you  that  this  small 
piece  of  skin  was,  not  long  ago,  as  large  as  —  that 
atlas,"  said  Raphael,  looking  about  him,  "  and  for  the 
last  three  months  it  has  been  visiblj-  shrinking." 

"  Well,  I  understand  that,"  said  the  man  of  science. 
"All  remains  of  animal  life,  primitively  organized, 
are  liable  to  a  natural  decay,  which  is  easy  to  compre- 
hend, and  the  progress  of  which  depends  largely  on  at- 
mospheric influences.  Even  metals  expand  or  contract 
perceptibly  ;  for  engineers  often  notice  considerable 
spaces  between  huge  stones,  held  closely  together  origi- 
nally by  bands  of  iron.  Science  is  vast,  human  life  is 
short  ;  therefore  we  can  hardly  hope  to  master  all  the 
phenomena  of  nature." 

u  Monsieur,"  said  Raphael,  rather  bewildered,  "  ex- 
cuse the  inquiry  I  am  about  to  make  of  }'ou.  Are 
you  quite  sure  that  this  Skin  comes  under  the  general 


The  Magic  Skin. 


253 


laws  of  zoology  ;  can  it  be  stretched  back  to  its  former 
size?" 

"  Undoubtedly  —  Plague  take  it  !  "  cried  Monsieur 
Lavrille,  vainly  trying  to  stretch  the  talisman.  64  Mon- 
sieur," he  added,  "  you  had  better  go  and  see  Plan- 
chette, the  celebrated  professor  of  mechanics  ;  he  can 
certainly  find  a  way  to  act  upon  that  Skin,  to  soften 
and  distend  it." 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  you  save  my  life." 

Raphael  bowed  to  the  wise  man,  and  betook  himself 
at  once  to  Planchette,  leaving  Lavi'ille  in  a  study  filled 
with  vials  and  dried  plants.  He  brought  away  with 
him,  unawares,  the  whole  of  human  science,  —  a  no- 
menclature Î  The  worthy  naturalist  was  like  Sancho 
Panza  relating  the  story  of  the  goats  to  Don  Quixote  ; 
he  amused  himself  by  counting  the  animals  and  num- 
bering them.  With  one  foot  in  the  grave,  he  knew  as 
yet  only  a  tiny  fraction  of  the  incommensurable  num- 
bers of  the  great  herds  flung  b}7  God,  for  some  mysteri- 
ous purpose,  across  the  lands  and  seas  of  the  universe. 
Eaphael,  however,  was  satisfied. 

u  I  can  bridle  my  ass,  now,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
Sterne  had  said  before  him:  "  Spare  your  ass,  if  }rou 
would  live  to  old  age."  But  the  beast  is  certainly  an 
unaccountable  one.  , 

Planchette  was  a  tall,  lean  man,  a  poet  lost  in  per' 
petual  contemplation  of  an  abyss  without  a  bottom, 
namely,  motion.  Ordinary  persons  cast  the  reproach 
of  madness  upon  these  glorious  minds,  these  souls  un- 
comprehended,  who  live  in  noble  indifference  to  luxury 
and  life,  capable  of  smoking  all  day  long  an  unlighted 
cigar,  or  of  entering  a  salon  without  alwa}rs  marrying  th§ 


254  The  Magic  Skin. 


buttons  of  their  garments  to  the  buttonholes.  Some 
day,  after  long  sounding  of  the  void,  after  piling  up  the 
X's  under  Aa  —  Gg,  they  find  the}7  have  analyzed  some 
natural  law  and  decomposed  the  simplest  of  elements  ; 
then  suddenly  the  world  at  large  admires  a  new  mech- 
anism, or  some  vehicle  of  the  understanding,  whose  facile 
construction  amazes  and  confounds  us.  The  modest 
man  of  science  smiles  and  says  to  his  admirers,  — 

"  What,  think  you,  I  have  created?  Nothing.  Man 
cannot  invent  a  force  ;  he  directs  it.  Science  consists 
in  following  nature." 

Raphael  came  upon  the  mechanician,  standing  rigid 
on  his  two  legs,  like  a  man  fallen  plumb  from  a  gib- 
bet on  which  he  has  been  hanged.  He  was  watching 
a  marble  as  it  rolled  over  a  sun-dial,  and  waiting 
anxiously  till  it  stopped.  The  poor  man  was  neither 
pensioned  nor  decorated,  for  he  knew  nothing  about  ex- 
hibiting his  science.  Happy  in  the  quest  of  discovery, 
he  thought  of  neither  fame  nor  money,  nor  even  of  him- 
self ;  he  lived  in  science  for  the  sake  of  science. 

"  Well,  there 's  no  end  to  it,"  he  cried,  still  watching 
the  marble.  Then  noticing  Raphael,  he  said,  "  Mon- 
sieur, I  am  your  most  obedient  ;  how  is  the  mamma  ? 
Go  and  see  m}'  wife." 

"  I  could  have  lived  that  life,"  thought  Raphael,  who 
proceeded  to  draw  the  student  from  his  reverie  by  show- 
ing him  the  Magic  Skin,  and  asking  to  be  told  how  to 
soften  and  distend  it.  "  Though  you  may  laugh  at  my 
credulity,  monsieur,"  said  the  marquis,  after  stating  the 
case,  "  I  shall  hide  nothing  from  3^011.  This  Skin  has, 
as  I  think,  a  power  of  resistance  against  which  nothing 
can  avail." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


255 


"  Monsieur/'  said  Planchette,  "men  of  the  world 
are  apt  to  treat  science  cavalierly.  They  all  say  to 
ns  pretty  much  what  the  Incroyable  said  to  Lalande 
when  he  escorted  a  lady  to  the  observatory  after  the 
eclipse  was  over,  —  4  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
begin  again  ?  '  What  effect  are  you  seeking  to  pro- 
duce ?  The  end  and  aim  of  mechanics  is  to  apply  the 
laws  of  motion  or  to  neutralize  them.  As  to  motion  in 
itself,  I  declare  to  you  with  humility  that  we  are  power- 
less to  define  it.  That  acknowledged,  we  have  dis- 
covered some  of  the  unvarying  phenomena  which  govern 
the  action  of  fluids  and  solids.  By  reproducing  the 
generating  causes  of  those  phenomena,  we  are  able  to 
move  substances  and  transmit  to  them  a  locomotive 
power  (up  to  a  certain  ratio  of  limited  rapidity),  to 
start  their  motion,  to  divide  them  simply  or  indefi- 
nitely, whether  we  break  them  or  pulverize  them.  We 
can  also  twist  them  and  produce  rotary  motion,  modify, 
compress,  dilate,  or  stretch  them.  This  science  rests 
on  a  single  fact.  You  see  that  marble,  monsieur.  It 
is  here  on  this  stone  ;  now  it  is  over  there.  By  what 
name  shall  we  call  that  act  so  physically  natural  and 
so  morally  unaccountable?  Motion,  action,  locomotion, 
change  of  place?  What  self-sufficiency  is  in  those 
words  ?  A  name,  —  is  that  a  solutioh  ?  Yet  it  is  the 
whole  of  science.  Our  machinery  employs  or  decom- 
poses that  motion,  action,  fact.  The  slight  phenomenon 
before  you,  brought  to  bear  on  solid  masses,  can  blow 
up  Paris.  We  increase  speed  by  expending  force,  and 
force  by  expending  speed.  What  are  force  and  speed? 
Science  is  unable  to  reply,  just  as  she  is  unable  to 
create  motion.    Motion,  of  any  kind,  is  an  immense 


256 


The  Magic  Skin. 


power,  and  man  has  never  invented  powers.  Power  is 
one,  like  motion,  which  is  indeed  the  essence  of  power. 
All  things  are  motion.  Thought  is  motion.  Nature 
rests  on  motion.  Death  is  a  motion  whose  range  is 
as  yet  little  known  to  us.  If  God  is  eternal,  we  must 
believe  that  he  is  ever  in  motion  ;  God  is,  perhaps,  mo- 
tion itself.  Thus  motion  is  as  inexplicable  as  God, 
as  profound,  unlimited,  incomprehensible,  intangible. 
Who  has  ever  handled,  understood,  or  measured  mo- 
tion? We  feel  its  effects  without  seeing  it.  We  can 
even  deny  its  existence,  as  we  deny  that  of  God.  Where 
is  it  ?  where  is  it  not  ?  Whence  comes  it  ?  What  is  the 
principle  of  it?  Where  will  it  end?  It  is  every- 
where around  us  ;  it  presses  upon  us,  and  yet  evades 
us  î  As  a  fact,  it  is  evident  ;  as  an  abstraction,  it  is 
obscure,  being,  as  it  is,  cause  and  effect  in  one.  It  re- 
quires, as  we  do,  space;  and  what  is  space?  Motion 
alone  reveals  it  to  us  ;  without  motion  it  is  merely  a 
word  devoid  of  meaning,  an  insoluble  problem,  like 
chaos,  like  creation,  like  the  infinite.  Motion  defies 
human  thought,  and  the  only  conception  man  is  allowed 
to  obtain  of  it  is  that  he  can  never  conceive  of  it.  Be- 
tween each  of  those  points  which  that  marble  has  suc- 
cessively occupied  in  space,"  continued  the  learned  man  ; 
"  there  lies  an  abyss  for  human  reason  ;  into  that  abyss 
fell  Pascal.  To  act  upon  an  unknown  substance,  we 
must  first  study  that  substance  ;  according  to  its  own 
nature  it  will  either  break  under  a  shock  or  resist  it. 
If  it  breaks  in  two  and  your  intention  is  not  to  divide 
it,  we  fail  of  the  proposed  end.  Do  you  wish  to  com- 
press it?  You  must  transmit  an  equal  motion  to  all 
parts  of  the  substance,  so  as  to  diminish  uniformly  the 


The  Magic  Skin. 


257 


space  that  separates  them.  On  the  other  hand,  do  you 
desire  to  stretch  a  substance  ?  Then  you  must  endeavor 
to  give  each  molecule  an  equal  eccentric  force  ;  for,  un- 
less that  law  is  carefully  observed,  we  shall  produce 
solutions  of  continuity.  There  are,  monsieur,  an  in- 
finite number  of  methods  and  endless  combinations  in 
motion.    What  effect  are  3-011  seeking  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Raphael,  impatiently,  "  I  seek 
some  method  sufficiently  powerful  to  stretch  this  Skin 
indefinitely." 

"  The  substance  being  complete  in  itself,"  said  the 
mathematician,  "  it  cannot  be  indefinitely  distended  ; 
pressure  will,  however,  necessarily  increase  its  surface 
size  at  the  expense  of  its  thickness  ;  it  will  grow  thinner 
and  thinner  until  the  substance  fails  — 

u  Obtain  that  result,  monsieur/'  cried  Raphael,  "  and 
you  will  have  earned  millions." 

"  I  should  simply  steal  your  mone}',"  said  the  man  of 
science,  phlegmatic  as  a  Dutchman.  "  I  will  show  you 
in  two  words  the  existence  of  a  machine  under  which 
the  Creator  himself  would  be  crushed  like  a  fly.  It  re- 
duces man  to  the  condition  of  a  bit  of  blotting-paper  ; 
yes,  a  booted,  spurred,  cravat  ted  man,  gold,  jewels, 
hat,  and  all,  — " 

"  What  a  horrible  machine  !  "  * 

"  Instead  of  flinging  their  children  into  the  water, 
those  Chinese  ought  to  have  utilized  them  in  this  very 
way,"  continued  the  man  of  science,  without  regard  to 
man's  respect  for  his  progeny. 

Absorbed  in  his  idea,  Planchette  took  an  empty 
flower-pot  with  a  hole  in  the  bottom,  and  placed  it 
on  the  sun-dial  ;  then  he  fetched  a  small  quantity  of 

17 


The  Magic  Skin. 


clay  from  a  corner  of  the  garden.  Raphael  stood 
watching  hini  like  a  child,  charmed  with  some  won- 
derful tale  told  by  its  nurse.  Placing  the  clay  upon 
the  dial,  Planchette  drew  a  pruning-knife  from  his 
pocket,  cut  two  branches  of  elder,  and  began  to  empty 
them,  whistling  to  himself  as  though  Raphael  were  not 
present. 

"Here  are  the  elements  of  the  machine,"  he  said. 

He  now  fastened  one  of  the  wooden  tabes  at  right 
angles  to  the  bottom  of  the  flower-pot  with  a  portion 
of  the  clay,  so  that  the  hollow  end  of  the  elder  branch 
corresponded  with  the  hole  in  the  flower-pot.  The 
whole  looked  now  like  an  enormous  pipe.  He  then 
spread  a  layer  of  the  clay  on  the  sun-dial,  shaping  it 
in  the  form  of  a  shovel,  set  the  flower-pot  on  the  widest 
part,  and  placed  the  branch  of  eider  on  the  part  repre- 
senting the  handle  of  the  shovel.  Next,  he  put  a  quan- 
tity of  clay  at  the  end  of  the  elder- tube,  and  inserted 
the  other  tube  again  at  right  angles,  making  an  elbow 
of  the  clay  to  join  it  firmly  to  the  horizontal  branch,  so 
that  the  air.  or  any  given  ambient  fluid,  could  circulate 
through  the  improvised  machine  from  the  opening  of 
the  vertical  tube  along  the  intermediary  canal,  into  the 
empty  flower-pot. 

"Monsieur,  this  contrivance."  he  said  to  Raphael, 
with  the  gravity  of  an  Academician  pronouncing  his 
initiatory  discourse.  "  is  one  of  the  great  Pascal's  high- 
est claims  to  reverence." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

The  man  of  science  smiled.  He  went  to  a  fruit-tree 
and  took  down  a  little  bottle  (in  which  his  apothecary 
had  sent  him  a  liquor  to  attract  ants),  broke  off  the 


The  Magic  Skin. 


259 


bottom  of  the  vial  and  made  a  funnel  of  the  rest, 
fitting  it  carefully  to  the  open  end  of  the  vertical  tube 
of  elder,  which  brought  it  opposite  to  the  grand  reser- 
voir represented  by  the  flower-pot.  Then  from  a  gar- 
den watering-pot  he  poured  in  enough  water  to  come 
equally  to  the  edge  of  the  reservoir,  and  to  the  little 
circular  opening  of  the  vertical  tube.  Raphael's  thoughts 
wandered  to  his  Magic  Skin. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  mechanician,  "water  is  sup- 
posed to  be  an  incompressible  substance  ;  don't  forget 
that  fundamental  principle  ;  nevertheless,  it  does  com- 
press, but  so  slight^  that  its  contractile  faculty  may 
be  reckoned  at  zero.  You  see  the  surface  of  the  water 
in  the  flower-pot?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Well,  suppose  that  surface  a  thousand  times  larger 
than  the  orifice  of  the  elder-tube  through  which  I  poured 
in  the  water.    Stay,  I  will  take  off  the  funnel." 

u  I  follow  you." 

"  Well,  monsieur,  if  I  increase  the  liquid  mass  by 
pouring  more  water  through  the  orifice  of  the  little 
tube,  the  fluid,  forced  to  go  down,  will  rise  up  in  the 
reservoir  represented  by  the  flower-pot  until  the  liquid 
reaches  the  same  level  in  each." 

"  That  is  evident,"  said  Raphael.  - 

"  But  there  is  this  difference,"  resumed  Planchette  ; 
u  the  thin  column  of  water  added  to  the  small  vertical 
tube  presents  a  force  equal,  let  us  say,  to  a  pound's 
weight,  and  as'its  action  is  faithfully  transmitted  to  the 
liquid  mass,  and  reacts  on  all  points  of  the  surface  of 
the  reservoir,  there  will  inevitably  be  a  thousand 
columns  of  water,  all  rising  with  a  force  equal  to  that 


260 


The  Magic  Shin. 


which  sent  down  the  fluid  in  the  little  vertical  tube, 
and  necessarily  producing  here,"  said  Planchette,  point- 
ing to  the  opening  of  the  flower-pot,  4  4  a  force  one  thou- 
sand times  as  powerful  as  the  force  introduced  there," 
pointing  to  the  orifice  of  the  tube. 

u  That  is  perfectly  plain,"  said  Raphael. 

Planchette  smiled. 

4 4  In  other  words,"  he  resumed,  with  the  tenacious 
logic  of  a  mathematician,  "  we  must,  in  order  to  re- 
press the  overflow  of  the  water,  bring  to  bear  on  all 
parts  of  the  great  surface  a  force  equal  to  the  force 
acting  through  the  vertical  conduit  ;  but  with  this  differ- 
ence, that  if  the  liquid  column  in  it  is  only  a  foot  high, 
the  thousand  little  columns  rising  to  the  grand  surface 
will  have  only  a  very  feeble  elevation.  Now,"  con- 
tinued Planchette,  giving  a  flip  to  his  sticks,  44  suppose 
we  replace  this  absurd  little  apparatus  by  metallic  tubes 
of  suitable  power  and  dimension  ;  say  that  you  cover 
with  a  strong  movable  plate  the  fluid  surface  of  the 
reservoir,  and  upon  that  plate  you  place  another  whose 
strength  and  solidity  will  resist  any  strain  ;  and  then 
continue  to  add  to  the  force  of  the  liquid  mass  by  cease- 
lessly pouring  more  water  through  the  vertical  tube. 
An  object,  whatever  it  is,  held  between  the  two  metal 
plates  must  yield  to  the  enormous  force  brought  to  bear 
upon  it.  The  means  of  steadily  introducing  water 
through  the  little  tube  is  a  mere  nothing  in  mechanics, 
and  so  is  the  method  by  which  the  force  of  the  liquid 
mass  is  transmitted  to  the  plates.  Two  pistons  and 
a  few  valves  are  enough  for  that.  You  now  see, 
monsieur,"  he  said,  taking  Valentin's  arm,  44  that  there 
is  no  substance  whatever  which,  if  placed  between 


The  Magic  Skin. 


261 


these  resistant  forces,  will  not  be  compelled  to  extend 
itself." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Raphael,  "  did  the  author  of 
the  4  Provincial  Letters  '  invent  —  " 

"  He  himself,  monsieur  ;  and  the  science  of  mechanics 
knows  nothing  more  simple  or  more  beautiful.  The 
opposite  principle,  namely,  the  expansion  of  water, 
created  the  steam-engine.  But  water  is  expansive  to 
a  certain  degree  only,  whereas  its  non-compressibility 
being,  as  it  were,  a  negative  force,  is  necessarily 
permanent." 

44  If  this  Skin  be  extended,"  said  Raphael,  44  I  prom- 
ise to  erect  a  statue  to  Blaise  Pascal,  to  found  a  prize 
of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  for  the  finest  discovery  in 
mechanics  within  each  decade,  and  to  build  a  hospital 
for  mathematicians  who  may  become  poor  or  crazy." 

"That  would  all  be  very  useful,"  said  Planchette. 
44  Monsieur,"  he  resumed,  with  the  tranquillity  of  a  man 
living  in  a  purely  intellectual  sphere  ;  "I  will  take  you 
to-morrow  to  Spieghalter.  That  distinguished  mech- 
anician has  just  constructed,  from  plans  of  mine,  a  per- 
fected machine  by  which  a  child  could  put  a  thousand 
bales  of  hay  into  his  hat." 

44  To-morrow,  then,  monsieur." 

44  To-morrow." 

44  Talk  of  mechanics  !  "  thought  Raphael,  as  he  went 
away  ;  44  it  is  the  noblest  of  sciences.  The  other  man, 
with  his  onagers,  his  classifications,  his  species,  and  his 
vials  full  of  monstrosities,  is,  at  best,  like  the  marker 
of  a  public  billiard-table." 

The  next  day  Raphael  returned  full  of  hope  to  join 
Planchette,  and  together  they  went  to  the  rue  de  la 


262 


The  Magic  Skin. 


Santé,  name  of  good  augury.  The  young  man  soon 
found  himself  at  Spieghalter's  vast  establishment,  sur- 
rounded by  a  number  of  roaring  fiery  furnaces.  The 
place  was  filled  as  with  a  rain  of  fire,  a  deluge  of  nails, 
an  ocean  of  pistons,  screws,  levers,  crossbars,  files,  and 
nuts,  a  sea  of  castings,  valves,  and  bars  of  steel.  Fil- 
ings choked  the  throat.  Iron  was  in  the  atmosphere, 
men  were  covered  with  it,  everything  smelt  of  it  ;  iron 
was  alive,  it  was  an  organism,  it  became  a  fluid,  it  took 
a  hundred  forms,  it  walked,  it  thought,  it  obeyed  a 
capricious  will.  Through  the  roar  of  the  forges,  the 
crescendo  of  the  hammers,  the  hissing  of  the  lathes, 
Raphael  made  his  way  to  a  large  room  which  was  clean 
and  airy,  where  he  could  examine  at  his  ease  the  im- 
mense hydraulic  press  which  Planchette  had  mentioned. 
He  admired  the  joists,  if  we  may  so  call  them,  of  cast- 
iron,  and  the  iron  side-beams  held  together  by  inde- 
structible bolts. 

"  If  you  were  to  turn  that  crank  seven  times  rap- 
idly," Spieghalter  said  to  him,  pointing  to  a  balance- 
wheel  of  polished  iron,  u  you  would  grind  a  plate  of 
steel  into  a  thousand  particles,  which  would  enter  your 
flesh  like  needles," 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  cried  Raphael. 

Planchette  himself  slipped  the  Magic  Skin  between 
the  two  metal  plates  of  the  great  machine,  and  then, 
calm  in  the  security  given  by  scientific  convictions,  he 
quickly  turned  the  crank. 

"  Lie  down,  lie  down,  or  we  are  dead,"  cried  Spieg- 
halter, flinging  himself  flat  on  the  ground. 

A  dreadful  hissing  echoed  through  the  workrooms. 
The  water  contained  in  the  machine  burst  the  cast-iron, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


263 


and  threw  a  jet  of  immense  force,  which  fortunately 
struck  an  old  piece  of  machinery,  knocking  it  over,  and 
twisting  it  out  of  shape  like  a  house  caught  by  a  water- 
spout. 

64  Oh!"  said  Planchette,  tranquilly,  "that  shagreen 
is  still  as  sound  as  my  eye.  Master  Spieghalter,  there 
must  have  been  a  flaw  in  your  cast-iron,  or  some  inter- 
stice in  the  main  tube." 

"  No,  no,  I  know  my  own  iron.  Monsieur  may  take 
away  that  thing  of  his  ;  the  Devil  is  in  it." 

So  saying,  the  German  seized  a  blacksmith's  hammer, 
flung  the  Skin  upon  an  anvil  and,  with  the  strength  of 
anger,  struck  the  talisman  a  blow,  the  like  of  which 
had  never  before  resounded  in  his  workshops. 

44  It  shows  no  mark  of  it  !  "  cried  Planchette,  strok- 
ing the  rebel  Skin. 

The  workmen  ran  in.  The  foreman  took  the  Skin 
and  threw  it  among  the  live  coal  of  the  forge.  All 
present  ranged  themselves  in  a  half-circle  round  the 
fire,  awaiting  with  impatience  the  result  of  a  final  and 
massive  blow  upon  the  strange  substance.  Raphael, 
Spieghalter,  and  Planchette,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
black  and  attentive  crowd.  Seeing  those  white  eyes, 
those  heads  powdered  with  iron-filings,  those  grimy, 
shining  garments,  those  haiiy  breasts,  Raphael  fancied 
himself  transported  to  the  weird  nocturnal  regions  of 
German  legends.  The  foreman  seized  the  Skin  with 
the  tongs,  after  leaving  it  in  the  furnace  for  ten 
minutes. 

64  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Raphael. 

The  foreman  held  it  out  to  him  in  jest.  Raphael 
held  it,  cold  and  supple,  in  his  fingers.    A  cry  of 


264 


The  Magic  Skin. 


horror  rose  ;  the  workmen  fled.  Valentin  was  left 
alone  with  Planchette  in  the  deserted  workshop. 

44  It  is  diabolic,"  said  Raphael,  in  accents  of  despair. 
44  No  human  power  can  save  my  life." 

64  Monsieur,  I  did  wrong,"  said  the  mathematician 
in  a  contrite  tone.  u  We  ought  to  have  submitted  that 
extraordinary  Skin  to  the  action  of  a  rolling-mill.  How 
came  I  ever  to  have  advised  you  to  try  compression  ?  " 

44  I  asked  it  of  you  myself,"  replied  Raphael. 

The  man  of  science  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  like  that  of 
a  guilty  man  acquitted  by  a  jury.  Nevertheless,  deeply 
interested  by  the  strange  problem  of  the  Skin,  he  re- 
flected a  few  moments,  and  then  said  :  — • 

"This  mysterious  substance  ought  to  be  treated  by 
reagents.  Let  us  go  and  see  Japhet  ;  Chemistry  may 
do  more  with  it  than  Mechanics." 

Valentin  put  his  horse  at  speed,  hoping  to  find  the 
great  chemist,  Japhet,  still  at  his  laboratory. 

44  Well,  my  old  friend,"  said  Planchette,  perceiving 
Baron  Japhet  in  his  armchair,  watching  a  precipitate, 
44  how  is  Chemistry  going  on  ?  " 

44  Asleep.  Nothing  new.  The  Academy  has,  how- 
ever, admitted  the  existence  of  salicine.  But  salicine, 
asparagine,  glucin,  and  digitalin  are  not  discoveries." 

44  You  seem  to  be  reduced  to  inventing  names,"  said 
Raphael, 64  for  lack  of  power  to  invent  things." 

44  True,  by  heaven,  young  man  !  " 

44  Come,"  said  Planchette  to  the  chemist,  44  try  to 
decompose  this  substance  for  us  :  if  you  can  extract 
any  sort  of  principle  from  it  I  '11  call  you  Diabolus  ; 
for  in  trying  to  compress  it  we  have  just  blown  up  an 
hydraulic  press." 


The  Magic  Skin. 


265 


"Let  me  see  it,  let  me  see  it!  "  cried  the  chemist 
joyfully,  "it  may  be  some  undiscovered  simple  sub- 
stance." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Raphael,  "it  is  really  nothing 
more  than  a  piece  of  ass's  skin." 

"  Monsieur?"  said  the  chemist,  gravely. 

"  I  am  not  joking,"  said  thè  marquis,  giving  him  the 
Skin. 

Baron  Japhet  applied  the  sensitive  test  of  his  tongue 
to  the  strange  product  ;  that  tongue  so  capable  of  dis- 
tinguishing salts,  acids,  alkalies,  gases  ;  and  then  he 
said,  after  a  few  attempts,  • — 

"It  has  no  taste.  Well,  I'll  give  it  a  bath  of 
fluorine." 

Subjected  to  the  action  of  that  element,  which  is  quick 
to  decompose  animal  tissues,  the  Skin  underwent  no 
change. 

"  It  is  not  shagreen  at  all,"  cried  the  chemist.  "  Let 
us  treat  it  as  a  mineral,  and  knock  it  in  the  head  by 
putting  it  in  a  melting-pot,  where  I  happen  to  have 
at  this  moment  some  red  potassium." 

Japhet  left  the  room,  but  soon  returned. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  to  Raphael,  "  may  I  take  a 
small  piece  of  this  strange  substance  ?  it  is  something 
ver}7  extraordinary." 

"A  piece!"  cried  Raphael,  "no,  not  a  hair's 
breadth  ;  but  you  cannot  if  you  would.  Try,"  he  added, 
in  a  tone  that  was  half-sad,  half-jeering. 

The  chemist  broke  a  razor  in  his  efforts  to  cut  the 
Skin  ;  then  he  tried  to  crack  it  by  a  strong  shock  of 
electricity  ;  next  he  subjected  it  to  the  full  force  of  a 
voltaic  battery,  until  at  last  all  the  thunderbolts  of 


266  The  Magic  Skin. 

science  had  been  fruitlessly  launched  against  the  dread- 
ful talisman.  It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
Planchette,  Japhet,  and  Raphael,  oblivious  of  the  flight 
of  time,  were  awaiting  the  result  of  a  last  experiment. 
The  shagreen  came  out  victorious  from  a  terrible  shock 
due  to  a  certain  quantity  of  chloride  of  nitrogen. 

"  I  am  a  dead  man  !  "  cried  Eaphael.  "  The  finger 
of  God  is  in  it.    I  must  die." 

He  left  the  house  without  another  word  to  thé  two 
men,  who  remained  wonderstruck. 

"  We  had  better  not  say  a  word  of  this  at  the  Acad- 
emy ;  our  colleagues  would  simply  laugh  at  us,"  said 
Planchette  to  the  chemist,  after  a  tolerably  long  pause, 
during  which  the}7  looked  at  each  other  without  daring 
to  communicate  their  thoughts.  They  were  like  Chris- 
tian believers  coming  out  of  their  tombs  and  finding  no 
God  in  heaven.  Science  powerless  !  acids,  pure  water  ! 
red  potassium  dishonored  !  electricity  and  a  voltaic  pile 
no  better  than  a  cup  and  ball  ! 

"An  hydraulic  press  shattered  like  an  egg-shell!" 
exclaimed  Planchette. 

"  I  believe  in  the  Devil,"  said  Baron  Japhet,  after  a 
moment's  silence. 

"  And  I  in  God,"  responded  Planchette. 

The  two  spoke  according  to  their  lights.  To  a 
mechanician  the  universe  is  a  machine,  which  implies  a 
workman  ;  but  as  for  chemistry  —  that  science  of  a  devil 
who  goes  about  decomposing  everything,  —  to  chemistry 
the  world  is  nothing  but  a  gas  endowed  with  motion. 

"  We  can't  deny  the  fact,"  said  the  chemist. 

'  '  Bah  !  to  console  us,  the  dullards  of  the  world  have 
invented  that  nebulous  maxim,  4  Stupid  as  a  fact.'  " 


The  Magic  Skin. 


267 


With  that  they  went  off  and  dined  together  like  men 
who  saw  only  a  phenomenon  in  a  miracle. 

By  the  time  Valentin  reached  home  he  had  fallen 
into  a  state  of  cold  anger  ;  he  no  longer  believed  in 
an}7 thing  ;  his  ideas  were  befogged  in  his  brain,  his 
thoughts  reeled  and  vacillated  like  those  of  all  other 
men  in  presence  of  an  impossible  fact.  He  had  readily 
believed  that  there  was  some  secret  defect  in  Spieg- 
halter's  machine  ;  the  impotence  of  science  and  of  fire 
surprised  him  little  ;  but  the  suppleness  of  the  Skin 
when  he  touched  it,  and  its  hardness  against  every 
means  of  destruction  within  the  power  of  man,  terrified 
him.    That  incontestable  fact  made  his  brain  reel. 

"Iam  mad,"  he  thought.  "  Though  I  have  eaten  no 
food  since  morning,  I  am  neither  hungry  nor  thirsty, 
and  yet  flames  are  consuming  me  within." 

He  replaced  the  Magic  Skin  in  the  frame  from  which 
he  had  taken  it,  and  after  drawing  another  red  line 
round  the  present  outline  of  the  talisman,  he  seated 
himself  once  more  in  his  easy-chair. 

"  Already  eight  o'clock!"  he  said.  "The  day  has 
gone  like  a  dream." 

He  put  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and 
leaned  his  head  upon  his  left  hand,  giving  himself  up 
to  funereal  reflections,  to  those  awful  thoughts  whose 
secret  is  carried  to  the  grave  by  prisoners  condemned 
to  death. 

"  Oh,  Pauline  !  "  he  cried  aloud.  "  Poor  child  !  there 
are  gulfs  which  love  cannot  pass,  no  matter  how  strong 
its  pinions."  At  this  instant  he  distinctly  heard  a 
smothered  sigh,  and  recognized,  by  a  most  touching 
privilege  of  passion,  the  breath  of  his  Pauline.    "  Oh  !  " 


263  The  Magic  Skin. 


he  said,  "it  is  my  death-warrant.  If  she  were  here 
I  would  seek  death  in  her  arms.'"' 

A  joyous  ripple  of  laughter  made  him  turn  his  head 
toward  the  bed.  and  he  saw  through  its  transparent 
curtains  the  sweet  face  of  his  wife,  smiling  like  a  happy 
child  at  a  successful  piece  of  mischief.  Her  beautiful 
hail-  fell  in  curls  upon  her  shoulders  ;  she  looked  like  a 
Bengal  rose  on  a  mound  of  white  roses. 

"  I  coaxed  Jonathas."  she  said.  "  Don't  scold  me. 
dearest  :  I  could  not  sleep  away  from  you.  Forgive  me 
my  folly."  and  she  sprang  from  the  bed  like  a  kitten, 
radiant  in  her  clouds  of  muslin  as  she  nestled  on 
Raphael's  knees.  "What  gulf  were  you  talking  of, 
dear  love?  she  asked,  an  anxious  expression  crossing 
her  brow. 

Of  death."  he  answered. 

••  You  hurt  me.'"  she  said  :  "  there  are  some  thoughts 
on  which  we  poor  women  cannot  bear  to  dwell.  —  they 
Mil  us.  Is  it  from  force  of  love,  or  lack  of  courage? 
I  know  not.  But  death  does  not  frighten  me."  she 
added,  laughing.  "  To  die  with  thee,  to-morrow,  to- 
gether, in  a  last  kiss  —  ah  !  it  would  be  happiness  ! 
I  should  still  have  lived  a  hundred  years.  Why  meas- 
ure time  by  days  and  years,  when  in  one  hour  we  live 
a  lifetime  of  peace  and  love  ?  " 

Right,  right."  he  said,  "the  heavens  are  speaking 
through  thy  pretty  mouth  ;  let  me  kiss  it.  and  let  me 
die." 

"Let  us  die."  she  answered,  laughing. 

Toward  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  daylight  was 
shining  through  the  interstices  of  the  outer  blinds  ; 
softened  by  the  muslin  curtains  it  showed  the  rich 


The  Magic  Skin. 


269 


colors  of  the  carpet  and  the  silken  coverings  of  the  fur- 
niture, while  touches  of  gilding  sparkled  here  and  there. 
A  sunbeam  quivered  on  the  eider-down  quilt  which  had 
slipped  from  the  bed  ;  hanging  to  a  tall  psyche-glass, 
the  dress  Pauline  had  taken  off  the  night  before  looked 
like  a  misty  apparition.  Her  tiny  shoes  were  at  some 
distance  from  the  bed.  The  low  warbling  of  a  night- 
ingale in  a  tree  beside  the  window,  and  the  whirr  of  his 
wings  as  he  suddenly  took  flight,  awakened  Raphael. 

"  Death, "  he  said,  continuing  a  thought  begun  in  a 
dream,  "  can  only  come  if  my  organization,  this  mech- 
anism of  flesh  and  bones  vitalized  by  my  will,  which 
makes  me  an  individual  man,  undergoes  some  morbid 
change  of  structure  or  of  functions.  The  doctors  ought 
to  know  the  symptoms  of  departing  vitality  ;  they  can 
tell  me  if  my  state  is  health  or  disease." 

He  looked  at  his  sleeping  wife,  whose  arm  was  about 
his  neck,  still  expressing,  even  in  sleep,  the  tender 
anxieties  of  her  love.  Her  attitude  was  graceful  as 
that  of  an  infant  ;  she  lay  with  her  face  toward  him, 
and  seemed  to  be  still  looking  at  him  and  putting  up 
the  pretty  lips  which  were  slightly  parted  by  her  pure 
and  equable  breathing;  a  smile  flickered  upon  them, 
showing  the  white  teeth  that  heightened  their  rosy 
freshness.  The  glow  of  her  complexion  was  more 
vivid,  and  its  whiteness,  so  to  speak,  more  white  at 
this  moment  than  during  all  the  loving  hours  of  the 
day.  The  graceful,  eas}T  attitude,  so  full  of  confidence, 
added  the  adorable  beauties  of  sleeping  childhood  to 
the  charms  of  love.  All  women,  even  the  most  natu- 
ral, obey  in  their  waking  hours  certain  social  conven- 
tions which  repress  the  native  instincts  of  their  soul  ; 


27Û 


The  Magic  Skin. 


but  sleep  seems  to  give  them  back  the  spontaneity  of 
being  which  adorns  infancy.  Like  one  of  those  dear 
and  celestial  beings  with  whom  the  mind  has  forced 
no  thought  into  the  gestures,  no  secrets  into  the  eyes, 
Pauline  blushed  at  nothing.  Her  profile  was  clearl}r 
defined  against  the  fine  linen  of  the  pillow-case  ;  quill- 
ings of  lace  mingled  wTith  her  straying  hair  and  gave 
her  a  half-roguish  look  ;  but  she  had  fallen  asleep 
happ}',  and  the  long  e}'elashes  laj'  upon  her  cheek  as 
if  to  protect  the  eyes  from  too  sudden  an  awakening, 
or  to  aid  that  composure  of  the  soul  which  seeks  to 
retain  the  memory  of  a  perfect  though  fugitive  happi- 
ness. To  see  her  thus  asleep,  smiling  in  her  dreams, 
peaceful  under  his  protection,  loving  him  even  in  a 
vision,  wrapped  in  her  love  as  in  a  mantle,  chaste  in 
the  presence  of  disorder,  was  to  a  man  like  Eaphael 
happiness  unspeakable.  He  looked  about  the  room 
surcharged  with  love  and  redolent  of  memories,  where 
the  sunlight  was  now  brightening  the  glowing  tints  ; 
then  his  e}'es  reverted  to  the  woman  beside  him,  young, 
loving,  and  pure,  whose  every  feeling  was  his  without 
alio}'.  Passionately  he  desired  to  live.  His  glance 
wakened  her,  and  she  opened  her  e}'es  as  though  a  ray 
of  sunshine  had  struck  them. 

"  Good-morning,  friend,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Ah! 
how  beautiful  thou  art  I  " 

The  two  heads,  glowing  with  a  grace  that  came  of 
love,  of  youth,  of  the  soft  half-lights  and  silence,  made 
one  of  those  divine  pictures  whose  fleeting  magic  be- 
longs to  the  earlier  clays  of  passion,  just  as  artlessness 
-and  candor  are  the  attributes  of  childhood.  Alas! 
these  spring-time  joys  of  love,  like  the  laughter  of 


The  Magic  Skin. 


271 


youth,  take  wings  and  live  in  our  memory  only  to 
drive  us  to  despair,  or  shed  some  consoling  fragrance 
upon  our  lives,  according  to  the  capricious  changes  of 
our  secret  thoughts. 

"  Why  did  you  wake?"  said  Raphael.  "It  gave 
me  such  happiness  to  watch  you  sleeping,  that  I  wept." 

"And  I,  too,"  she  answered.  u  I  wept  last  night 
as  I  watched  thee,  but  not  with  happiness.  Listen  to 
me,  oh,  my  Raphael,  listen  !  When  asleep,  thy 
breathing  is  not  free  and  unconstrained  ;  something 
sounds  in  thy  chest  which  frightens  me  ;  that  dry  and 
hacking  cough  is  like  my  father's,  and  he  is  dying  of 
consumption.  I  fancy  I  hear  in  thy  lungs  the  strange 
murmurings  of  disease.  And  you  have  fever,  I  am 
sure  of  it;  last  night  }7our  hand  was  moist  and  burn- 
ing. My  darling,  thou  art  so  young,"  she  said,  shud- 
dering; "surely  thou  canst  be  cured,  even  if — but 
no,  no,"  she  exclaimed  joyously,  "  there 's  no  fear; 
and  if  there  were,  that  disease  is  contagious,  the  physi- 
cians say  "  —  and  she  flung  her  arms  around  him,  and 
breathed  his  breath  in  one  of  those  firm  kisses  where 
two  souls  touch  each  other —  "  I  do  not  wish  to  grow 
old,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  die  young,  and  go  to  heaven, 
together,  our  hands  filled  with  flowers." 

"  Such  thoughts  come  only  to  those  who  have  health," 
answered  Raphael,  burying  his  hands  in  Pauline's  hair  ; 
but  a  horrible  fit  of  coughing  seized  him,  —  the  deep- 
seated  sonorous  cough  which  seems  to  come  from  a 
coffin,  terrifying  its  victims,  and  leaving  them  trem- 
bling and  sweating  after  shaking  their  nerves,  straining 
their  spinal  marrow,  and  sending  a  mysterious  leaden 
heaviness  through  their  veins.    Raphael  fell  back,  pale 


272 


The  Magic  Skin. 


and  exhausted,  like  a  man  whose  strength  has  been 
spent  in  some  last  effort.  Pauline  looked  at  him  with 
staring  eyes,  widened  bj*  fear,  and  remained  motionless, 
white,  and  silent. 

u  Let  us  talk  no  more  nonsense,  my  angel/'  she  said 
at  length,  trying  to  hide  from  Raphael  the  horrible 
presentiment  that  seized  her. 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  for  suddenly 
she  beheld  the  hideous  skeleton  of  Death.  Raphael's 
head  had  grown  livid  and  hollow,  like  a  skull  brought 
from  a  cemetery  to  assist  the  studies  of  science.  Pau- 
line recollected  his  exclamation  of  the  night  before,  and 
said,  as  if  to  herself:  — 

"  Yes,  there  are  abysses  which  love  cannot  cross,  — 
but  it  may  bury  itself  in  them." 

A  few  days  after  this  melancholy  scene,  Raphael  was 
seated  one  morning  in  an  armchair,  surrounded  by  four 
physicians,  who  had  placed  him  under  the  full  light  of 
a  window,  and  were  taking  his  pulse,  feeling  him  all 
over,  and  questioning  him  with  an  appearance  of  in- 
terest. The  patient  sought  to  discover  their  secret 
thoughts,  endeavoring  to  interpret  each  gesture,  and 
the  slightest  frown  that  came  upon  their  foreheads. 
This  consultation  was  his  last  hope.  These  supreme 
judges  were  about  to  render  a  decree  of  life  or  death. 
He  had  called  in  the  four  greatest  oracles  of  modern 
medicine,  that  he  might  wring  from  human  science  its 
utmost  knowledge.  Thanks  to  his  money  and  to  his 
name,  the  three  systems  between  which  the  judgment 
of  mankind  fluctuated  were  here  present.  Three  of 
these  phj'sicians  brought  with  them  the  whole  of  medi- 


The  Magio  Skin. 


273 


cal  philosophy,  —  representing  in  their  persons  the  con- 
flict between  Spirituality,  Analysis,  and  a  certain  sar- 
castic Eclecticism.  The  fourth  physician  was  Horace 
Bianchon,  a  mau  full  of  promise  and  science,  perhaps 
the  most  distinguished  of  the  modern  doctors  ;  the  wise 
and  modest  representative  of  the  studious  youth  who 
prepare  themselves  to  gather  in  the  heritage  of  wisdom 
laid  up,  during  the  last  fifty  years,  in  the  Ecole  de  Paris, 
and  who  may  perhaps  produce  the  monumental  work 
for  which  preceding  centuries  have  gathered  so  much 
diverse  material.  He  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Ras- 
tignac  and  of  Valentin  ;  for  the  last  few  days  he  had 
attended  the  latter  professionally,  and  was  now  helping 
him  to  answer  the  questions  of  the  three  professors,  to 
whom  he  occasionally  explained,  with  a  certain  insist- 
ence, the  symptoms  which,  as  he  thought,  betrayed 
pulmonary  consumption. 

"  You  have,  no  doubt,  led  a  life  of  excess,  and  given 
yourself  up  to  great  efforts  of  mind  ?  "  said  one  of  the 
doctors,  whose  square  head,  broad  face,  and  vigorous 
organization  seemed  to  show  a  genius  superior  to  that 
of  his  antagonists. 

"  I  have  tried  to  kill  myself  by  excess,  after  toiling 
for  three  years  at  a  great  work  which  may  occupy  3*011  r 
minds  some  of  these  days,"  answered  Raphael. 

The  great  man  nodded  his  head  with  apparent  satis- 
faction, as  though  he  were  saying  to  himself,  "  I  was 
sure  of  it  !  " 

This  was  the  illustrious  Brisset,  chief  among  the 
"  organists/'  and  successor  to  the  school  of  Cabanis 
and  Bichat,  the  positive  and  materialistic  school,  which 
sees  in  man  a  finite  being  subject  solety  to  the  laws  of 

18 


274 


The  Magic  Skin. 


his  own  organization,  whose  normal  state,  or  whose 
vitiated  anomalies  are  explainable  by  natural  causes. 

On  receiving  Raphael's  reply,  Brisset  glanced  silently 
at  a  man  of  medium  height,  whose  crimson  face  and 
ardent  eye  seemed  to  belong  to  some  antique  faun. 
Leaning  against  the  window-casing,  he  was  observing 
Raphael  attentively,  without  saying  a  word.  Doctor 
Cameristus,  chief  of  the  "  vitalists,"  a  man  of  exalted 
feelings  and  beliefs,  a  poetic  defender  of  the  abstract 
theories  of  Van  Helmont,  considered  human  life  a  loft}% 
secret  essence,  an  inexplicable  phenomenon  which 
laughs  at  scalpels,  deceives  surgery,  evades  the  drugs 
of  the  pharmacopoeia,  the  x  of  algebra,  the  laws  of 
anatomy,  and  scoffs  at  Science  ;  a  species  of  invisi- 
ble, intangible  flame,  subject  to  some  divine  law,  and 
which  often  remains  living  in  a  human  body  condemned 
by  the  decrees  of  doctors,  while  as  often  it  deserts 
organizations  that  seem  to  be  full  of  life. 

A  sardonic  smile  curled  the  lips  of  the  third  physi- 
cian, Doctor  Maugredie,  a  man  of  distinguished  intel- 
lect, but  pyrrhonic  and  a  scoffer,  who  believed  in 
nothing  but  the  knife,  conceded  to  Brisset  that  a  man 
could  die  who  was  perfectly  well,  and  agreed  with 
Cameristus  that  a  man  might  live  even  though  he 
were  dead.  He  saw  something  true  in  all  theories 
and  adopted  none,  declaring  that  the  best  medical 
S3rstem  was  to  have  no  doctrines  and  to  rely  only 
on  facts.  This  Panurge  of  his  school,  king  among 
observers,  the  great  investigator  and  scoffer,  the  man 
of  heroic  methods,  took  up  the  shagreen  talisman  and 
examined  it. 

"  I  should  like  to  witness  the  phenomenon  you  speak 


The  Magic  Skin. 


275 


of,  —  the  coinciding  of  your  desires  wit)i  the  shrinking 
of  the  leather,"  he  said  to  the  marquis. 

"  What  help  would  that  be  ?  "  cried  Brisset. 

"  What  help  indeed?  "  echoed  Cameristus. 

"  Ah!  you  agree  for  once,"  said  Maugredie. 

"  The  contraction  is  perfectly  simple,"  added  Brisset. 

"  It  is  supernatural,"  said  Cameristus. 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  Maugredie,  assuming  a  serious 
look  and  handing  the  Magic  Skin  to  Raphael,  "  the 
shrinking  of  leather  is  an  inexplicable  fact,  at  the  same 
time  a  natural  one,  which  from  the  dawn  of  ages  has 
been  the  despair  of  surgery  and  of  pretty  women." 

Valentin,  eagerly  watching  the  three  doctors,  was 
forced  to  perceive  that  they  felt  not  the  slightest  sym- 
pathy for  his  sufferings.  All  three  kept  silence  when  he 
answered  them  ;  looked  at  him  coldty,  and  questioned 
him  without  compassion.  Even  their  politeness  was 
nonchalant.  Whether  their  minds  were  made  up,  or 
whether  they  were  still  reflecting,  their  words  were  so 
few,  their  manner  so  lethargic,  that  Raphael  thought 
them  at  times  absent-minded.  Brisset  alone  said,  occa- 
sionally, "  Very  well,  very  good,"  in  reply  to  Bianchon's 
proofs  of  the  more  alarming  symptoms.  Cameristus 
was  plunged  in  his  own  thoughts.  Maugredie  was  like 
a  comic  actor  studying  a  pair  of  originals  to  produce 
them  faithfully  on  the  stage.  The  face  of  Horace 
Bianchon  alone  betrayed  concern,  even  a  tender  pity 
that  was  full  of  sadness.  He  had  practised  his  pro- 
fession too  short  a  time  to  be  indifferent  to  the  suffer- 
ings of  a  dying  man,  or  to  restrain  the  friendly  tears 
that  dimmed  his  eyes. 

After  spending  perhaps  half  an  hour  in  taking  the 


276 


The  Magic  Skin. 


measure,  as  it  were,  of  the  sick  man  and  his  disease,  as 
a  tailor  takes  the  measure  of  a  young  man  for  his  wed- 
ding suit,  they  began  to  talk  of  ordinary  matters,  even 
politics,  and  soon  after  proposed  to  adjourn  to  Raphael's 
study  for  consultation. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Raphael,  "  may  I  be  present?" 

Brisset  and  Maugredie  exclaimed  vehemently  against 
the  request,  and  in  spite  of  the  patient's  insistence  de- 
clared they  would  not  consult  in  his  presence.  Raphael 
submitted  to  their  etiquette,  recollecting  that  he  could 
slip  into  a  side-passage  and  overhear  their  discussions. 

u  Gentlemen,"  said  Brisset,  as  they  entered  the  study, 
14  let  me  give  you  my  opinion  at  once.  I  neither  wish 
to  impose  it  upon  you  nor  to  make  it  a  subject  of  con- 
troversy. It  is  clear,  precise,  and  founded  on  the  exact 
similarity  of  this  case  with  that  of  another  patient  of 
mine  ;  moreover,  I  am  much  pressed  for  time,  being 
wanted  at  my  hospital.  The  importance  of  the  operation 
which  I  am  to  perform  must  be  my  excuse  for  thus  seiz- 
ing the  first  word.  The  case  we  are  now  considering  is 
worn  out,  as  much  by  intellectual  labor  —  by  the  bye, 
Horace,"  he  said,  interrupting  himself  to  question  the 
young  physician,  ;t  what  has  he  written?  " 

"  A  theory  on  the  Will/3 

"  The  devil  I  well,  that 's  a  wide  subject.  He  is  worn 
out,  I  say,  not  only  by  excess  in  thought,  but  by  ex- 
cesses of  conduct  and  the  repeated  use  of  powerful 
stimulants.  The  violent  action  of  brain  and  body  thus 
induced  has  vitiated  all  the  functions  of  the  organism. 
It  is  easy  to  recognize  in  the  visible  symptoms  of  the 
face  and  body  a  tremendous  irritation  of  the  stomach, 
the  neurotic  condition  of  a  high-strung  temperament,  a 


The  Magic  Skin. 


277 


sensitiveness  of  the  epigastrium,  and  the  contractions 
of  hypochondria.  You  noticed,  of  course,  the  size 
and  prominence  of  the  liver.  Monsieur  Bianchon  has 
watched  the  patient's  digestion,  and  says  it  is  slow 
and  labored.  Properly  speaking,  there  is  no  longer  a 
stomach  ;  the  man  has  practically  disappeared.  The 
intellect  is  atrophied  because  the  stomach  no  longer 
digests.  The  progressive  deterioration  of  the  epigas- 
trium, the  centre  of  life,  has  broken  up  the  whole  sys- 
tem ;  it  reaches  every  part  of  the  organism,  more 
specially  the  brain  through  the  nerve  currents  ;  hence 
the  excessive  irritation  of  that  organ.  In  fact,  there  is 
monomania.  The  patient  is  under  the  influence  of  a 
fixed  idea.  To  him  that  Skin  really  appears  to  shrink  ; 
though  very  likely  it  has  always  been  just  as  we  see  it 
now.  But  whether  it  contracts  or  not,  that  bit  of  sha- 
green is  to  him  like  the  fly  the  grand  vizier  had  on  his 
nose.  Put  leeches  on  the  epigastrium  at  once  ;  calm 
the  irritation  of  that  organ,  in  which  the  whole  life  of 
man  resides.  Keep  the  patient  to  a  strict  diet,  and 
monomania  will  cease.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
Doctor  Bianchon  ;  he  is  quite  competent  to  seize  the 
idea  and  carry  out  the  treatment.  Perhaps  there  ma}T 
be  some  complications  ;  the  respiratory  passages  may  be 
irritated,  but  I  think  the  treatment  of  the  intestinal 
organs  far  more  important,  and  more  urgent  than  that 
of  the  lungs.  Close  study  on  abstract  subjects  and  a 
few  violent  passions  have  produced  this  serious  disturb- 
ance of  the  vital  forces.  However,  there  is  still  time  to 
mend  the  springs  and  set  the  machine  going  again  ;  the 
harm  done  is  not  past  remedy.  You  can  easily  save 
your  friend,"  he  added,  turning  to  Bianchon. 


278 


The  Magic  Shin. 


"  Our  learned  colleague  mistakes  effects  for  causes," 
answered  Cameristus.  "  Yes,  the  deteriorations  he  has 
noticed  have  taken  place  ;  but  the  stomach  has  not 
gradually  and  systematically  vitiated  the  whole  organ- 
ism together  with  the  brain,  like  the  spreading  of  a 
crack  in  a  pane  of  glass.  Some  original  shock  was 
needed  to  make  the  crack  ;  what  was  it?  what  gave  it? 
do  any  of  us  know  ?  have  we  studied  the  patient  long 
enough  to  know?  Gentlemen,  the  vital  principle,  Van 
Helmont's  archeus,  is  attacked  in  this  man  ;  vitality  it- 
self is  attacked  at  its  source,  in  its  essence.  The  divine 
spark,  the  fleeting  intelligence  which  holds  the  machin- 
ery together  and  produces  will,  the  science  of  life,  has 
ceased  to  control  the  daily  phenomena  of  this  human 
mechanism  and  the  functions  of  each  organ.  Hence 
the  disorders  so  well  diagnosed  by  my  learned  associate. 
The  deteriorating  action  did  not  pass  from  the  stomach 
to  the  brain,  but  from  the  brain  to  the  stomach.  No," 
he  said,  striking  his  own  bod}7  forcibly,  "I'm  not  a 
stomach  made  into  a  man  !  No,  that 's  not  the  whole 
of  me.  I  have  not  the  courage  to  declare  that  if  I  have 
a  sound  epigastrium  everything  else  must  be  right  with 
me.  We  cannot,"  he  continued,  in  a  gentler  tone,  u  re- 
fer to  one  and  the  same  physical  cause,  and  put  under 
uniform  treatment,  the  serious  disorders  which  are  found 
in  varying  cases,  more  or  less  seriously  attacked.  No 
man  is  like  another  man.  We  all  have  our  own  par- 
ticular organs,  diversely  affected,  diversely  nourished, 
fitted  for  various  missions,  and  intended  to  carry  out  an 
order  of  things  which  is  to  us  unknown.  The  fraction 
of  the  great  All  which  by  some  higher  will  wrorks  within 
us  the  phenomenon  called  life,  is  formulated  in  a  distinct 


The  Magic  Skin. 


279 


manner  in  each  human  being,  making  him  apparently  a 
finite  being,  but  at  one  point  co-existent  with  the  Infi- 
nite. Therefore,  we  must  study  each  case  separately, 
penetrate  its  individual  nature,  recognize  what  in  it  is 
life,  what  its  own  peculiar  power.  Between  the  soft- 
ness of  a  wet  sponge  and  the  hardness  of  pumice-stone 
there  are  man}r  gradations.  Such  is  Man.  Between 
the  spongy  organisms  of  the  lymphatics  and  the  metallic 
vigor  in  the  muscles  of  some  men  destined  to  live  long, 
what  mistakes  may  not  be  committed  by  the  iron-bound 
implacable  system  of  cure  by  depression,  by  the  pros- 
tration of  human  forces  which  you  choose  to  suppose 
irritated.  In  this  case  I  should  seek  a  mental  and 
moral  treatment,  a  searching  examination  of  the  inner 
being.  Seek  for  causes  in  the  entrails  of  the  soul,  not 
in  those  of  the  body  !  A  physician  should  be  an  in- 
spired being,  gifted  with  a  genius  all  his  own,  —  one  to 
whom  God  confides  the  power  of  reading  the  vital  na- 
ture, just  as  he  gave  to  his  prophets  the  eyes  to  see  into 
futurity,  to  his  poets  the  faculty  of  evoking  nature,  to 
his  musicians  that  of  arranging  sounds  in  harmonious 
sequence,  whose  type  is  perhaps  on  high  !  " 

"Pure  absolutism,  monarch}',  religion, — that's  his 
science  of  medicine  !  "  muttered  Brisket. 

u  Gentlemen,"  said  Maugredie,  hastily,  smothering 
Brisset's  remark,  "  don't  let  us  lose  sight  of  our  sick 
man,  —  " 

64  This  is  Science  !  "  thought  Raphael,  sadly.  "  My 
cure  hangs  between  a  rosary  and  a  chaplet  of  leeches, 
between  the  scalpel  of  Dupuytren  and  a  prayer  of  the 
Prince  of  Hohenlohe  !  On  the  dividing-line  between 
word  and  deed,  matter  and  spirit,  stands  Maugredie, 


280 


The  Magie  Skin. 


scoffing  !  The  human  yes  and  no  pursue  me.  Always 
and  forever  the  Carymary,  Carymara  of  Rabelais. 
I  am  spiritually  ill,  carymary  !  or  materially  ill,  cary- 
mara !  Am  I  to  live  ?  They  ignore  that.  Planchette 
at  least  had  more  honesty  ;  he  said  frankly,  6 1  don't 
know.'  " 

At  this  moment,  Valentin  distinguished  the  voice  of 
Doctor  Maugredie. 

u  The  patient  is  a  monomaniac, — well,  I  agree  to 
that,"  he  cried;  "  but  he  has  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  a  year.  Such  monomaniacs  are  rare,  and  we 
owe  them  at  least  our  best  advice.  As  to  knowing 
whether  his  epigastrium  acts  on  his  brain  or  his  brain 
on  his  epigastrium,  we  can  settle  that  when  he  is  dead. 
But  let  us  look  at  the  immediate  facts.  He  is  ill,  that 's 
very  certain.  He  must  have  some  treatment.  Never 
mind  theories.  Put  on  leeches  if  you  will  to  quiet  the 
intestinal  irritation  and  the  nervous  condition,  about 
which  we  are  all  agreed  ;  then  let  us  send  him  off  to 
some  Baths.  This  will  meet  both  systems.  If  he  is 
consumptive,  we  can't  save  him,  and  so  —  " 

Raphael  left  the  passage  and  returned  to  his  arm- 
chair. The  four  physicians  presently  re-entered  his 
room.  Horace  Bianchon  was  deputed  to  speak  to 
him,  and  said  :  — 

"  These  gentlemen  have  unanimously  decided  on  an 
immediate  application  of  leeches  to  the  stomach,  and  the 
urgent  necessity  of  a  treatment  that  shall  be  both  physi- 
cal and  moral.  In  the  first  place,  a  dietetic  regimen  is 
prescribed  to  quiet  the  irritation  of  your  organism  — 99 

Brisset  made  a  sign  of  approval. 

44  In  the  second,  a  hygienic  treatment  to  give  tone  to 


The  Magic  Skin. 


281 


your  mental  and  moral  condition.  Therefore,  we  unani- 
mously advise  you  to  go  to  Aix-les-bains  in  Savoie  or 
to  the  baths  of  the  Mont  Dore  in  Auvergne,  —  either 
you  prefer  ;  the  air  and  the  scenery  of  Savoie  are  more 
agreeable  than  those  of  the  Cantal,  but  we  wish  you  to 
please  yourself." 

Here  Doctor  Cameristus  gave  signs  of  assent. 

"  These  gentlemen,"  continued  Bianchon,  "  having 
found  some  slight  lesions  in  the  respiratory  organs,  are 
quite  agreed  in  approving  my  treatment  of  your  case,  so 
far.  They  think  that  your  cure  can  easily  be  effected, 
and  will  depend  on  the  judicious  and  alternate  use  of 
these  two  methods.    And  —  " 

"  This  is  why  your  science  is  mute,"  said  Eaphael, 
taking  Bianchon  into  his  study  and  giving  him  the  price 
of  the  useless  consultation. 

"  They  are  logical,"  said  the  }Toung  physician.  "  Cam- 
eristus feels,  Brisset  examines,  Maugredie  doubts  ; 
has  n't  man  a  soul,  a  body,  a  mind?  One  or  other  of 
those  three  first  causes  acts  more  or  less  powerfully  with- 
in us  ;  there  will  always  be  a  man  behind  all  scientific 
convictions.  Believe  me,  Raphael,  we  cannot  cure  ;  we 
only  aid  a  cure.  Between  the  science  of  Brisset  and 
the  science  of  Cameristus  stands  Expectant  science  ; 
but  to  practise  it  successfully  we  must  know  a  patient 
ten  years.  There  's  negation  at  the  bottom  of  medi- 
cine just  as  there  is  in  every  science.  Try  to  live 
prudently  ;  make  a  journey  to  Savoie  ;  it  is  best,  and 
always  will  be  best,  to  trust  to  nature." 

On  a  fine  morning,  about  a  month  later,  several  visit- 
ors to  the  Baths  of  Aix,  returning  from  their  usual 


282 


The  Magic  Skin. 


promenade,  met  together  in  one  of  the  salons  of  the 
Cercle.  Sitting  by  an  open  window  with  his  back  to 
the  company,  Raphael  remained  isolated,  plunged  in 
one  of  those  mechanical  reveries  in  which  our  thoughts 
arise,  link  with  each  other,  and  vanish  away  taking  no 
actual  shape,  passing  through  us,  as  it  were,  like  fleet- 
ing clouds  that  are  scarcely  tinted.  At  such  moments 
sadness  is  tender,  joy  is  shadowy,  and  the  soul  is  all 
but  sleeping.  Raphael,  yielding  to  this  sensuous  ex- 
istence, drank  in  the  pure  and  balmy  air  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  bathed  in  the  warm  atmosphere  of  the 
summer  evening,  happy  in  feeling  no  pain  and  in 
having  at  length  reduced  to  silence  the  fatal  talisman. 
Just  as  the  last  red  tints  of  the  setting  sun  were  fading 
from  the  summits,  the  temperature  grew  chilly,  and  he 
closed  the  window. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  an  old  lady,  "will  you  have  the 
kindness  not  to  shut  that  window.  We  are  suffocat- 
ing." 

The  speech  jarred  on  Raphael's  sensitive  ears  with 
peculiar  sharpness  ;  it  was  like  an  imprudent  word 
dropped  by  a  friend  in  whom  we  wish  to  believe,  and 
who  destroys  some  sweet  illusion  of  feeling  by  the  be- 
trayal of  an  inward  selfishness.  He  cast  the  chilling 
look  of  a  diplomatist  upon  the  lady  who  addressed  him, 
then  he  called  up  a  waiter  and  said  to  him  dryly  :  — 

u  Open  that  window." 

A  look  of  amazement  appeared  on  eveiy  face.  The 
company  began  to  whisper  in  low  tones  and  to  look  at 
the  sick  man  significantly,  as  if  he  had  been  guilty  of  a 
great  impertinence.  Raphael,  who  had  never  shaken 
off  his  natural  shyness,  felt  abashed  ;  but  he  resolutely 


The  Magic  Skin. 


283 


came  out  of  his  torpor,  recovered  the  energy  of  his 
mind,  and  asked  himself  the  meaning  of  the  strange 
scene.  Suddenly  and  strangely  a  rapid  action  took 
place  in  his  mind  ;  the  past  appeared  to  him  in  a  vision 
where  the  causes  of  the  feeling  he  inspired  sprang  into 
relief  like  the  veins  of  a  dead  body  when  some  natural- 
ist colors  it  to  a  semblance  of  life  with  a  chemical  in- 
jection. He  recognized  his  own  being  in  the  fleeting 
picture  ;  followed  his  existence  day  by  day  and  thought 
by  thought  ;  he  saw  himself,  not  without  surprise, 
gloomy  and  absorbed  in  the  midst  of  the  merry  world, 
thinking  only  of  his  own  destiny,  preoccupied  with  his 
own  griefs,  disdaining  even  the  most  trifling  intercourse 
with  others,  refusing  those  ephemeral  intimacies  that 
are  quickly  formed  among  persons  who  know  they  are 
not  likely  to  meet  again,  thoughtless  of  others,  like 
rocks  as  indifferent  to  the  soft  lapping  of  the  waves  as 
to  their  fury.  Then,  by  a  rare  privilege  of  intuition, 
he  read  the  souls  of  others  ;  he  saw  by  the  light  of  that 
inward  torch  the  yellow  skull,  the  sardonic  profile  of  an 
old  man  whose  money  he  had  won  without  allowing  him 
to  take  his  revenge  ;  he  saw  a  pretty  woman  to  whose 
advances  he  had  turned  the  cold  shoulder  ;  every  face 
in  his  vision  reproached  him  for  some  ostensible  injury, 
whose  real  crime  lay  in  the  invisible  stabs  he  had  given 
to  self-love.  Involuntarily  he  had  wounded  all  the  little 
vanities  which  gravitated  round  him. 

Sounding  thus  the  hearts  of  others,  he  deciphered 
their  secret  thoughts  ;  he  conceived  a  horror  of  society, 
its  hollow  politeness,  its  thin  varnish.  Rich  and  men- 
tally superior,  he  saw  himself  both  envied  and  hated  ; 
his  silence  baffled  curiosity  ;  his  reserve  seemed  haugh- 


284 


The  Magic  Skin. 


tiness  to  the  petty  and  superficial  beings  about  him  ; 
his  keen  perception  enabled  him  to  guess  the  latent 
unforgivable  wrong  of  which  he  was  guilty  toward  them, 
—  he  escaped  the  jurisdiction  of  their  mediocrit}T.  Re- 
belling against  their  inquisitorial  despotism,  he  showed 
he  could  live  without  them  ;  and  to  avenge  themselves 
for  that  regal  assumption  the}T  instinctively  banded  to- 
gether to  make  him  feel  their  power,  to  ostracize  him, 
and  let  him  know  that  they  too  could  do  without  him. 
At  first  he  was  filled  with  pity  at  this  aspect  of  the 
world  ;  then  he  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  the  supple 
power  which  thus  enabled  him  to  lift  the  veil  of  flesh 
that  hides  our  diseased  nature  ;  and  he  closed  his  eyes 
as  if  to  see  no  more.  A  black  pall  fell  upon  that  sinis- 
ter phantasmagoria  of  truth,  and  he  felt  himself  alone 
in  the  horrible  isolation  that  belongs  to  power. 

At  this  moment  he  was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of 
coughing,  and  he  heard,  in  place  of  the  usual  conven- 
tional sympathy,  a  hostile  murmur,  and  a  few  com- 
plaints uttered  in  a  low  voice.  Society  no  longer  wore 
the  veil  of  politeness,  possibly  because  it  was  aware 
that  he  knew  it  too  well. 

64  His  disease  is  contagious." 

"  The  president  of  the  Cercle  ought  to  forbid  his 
coming  here." 

u  Decency  requires  that  no  one  shall  cough  in  that 
way." 

"Any  man  as  ill  as  he  ought  not  to  come  to  the 
Baths.    He  will  drive  me,  for  one,  out  of  the  place." 

Raphael  rose  to  escape  the  general  ill-will,  and 
walked  about  the  rooms.  He  looked  for  some  friendly 
support,  and  presently  approached  a  lady  who  seemed 


The  Magic  Skin. 


285 


unoccupied,  intending  to  address  her  with  a  few  com- 
pliments. But  as  he  came  near  she  turned  her  back, 
and  pretended  to  be  watching  the  dancers.  Raphael 
dreaded  lest  this  fatal  evening  had  used  up  some  of  his 
talisman  ;  feeling  neither  the  will  nor  the  courage  to 
make  any  further  attempt  at  conversation,  he  left  the 
salon  hastily,  and  took  refuge  in  the  billiard-room. 
There  no  one  spoke  or  even  bowed  to  him.  His  natu- 
rally meditative  mind  showed  him  by  an  intussusception 
the  general  and  rational  cause  of  the  aversion  he  in^ 
spired.  This  little  world  at  the  Baths  obeyed,  perhaps 
without  knowing  it,  the  great  law  which  regulates  high 
society,  whose  implacable  code  had  already  fully  de- 
veloped to  Raphael's  eyes.  A  backward  glance  showed 
him  its  type  in  Fedora.  Neither  in  the  one  nor  in  the 
other  could  he  ever  have  found  sympathy  for  his  suffer- 
ings, or  comprehension  for  his  heart.  The  great  world 
banishes  the  sufferer  from  its  midst,  just  as  a  man  in 
vigorous  health  expels  some  morbid  element  from  his 
body.  Society  abhors  sorrows  and  the  sorrowful,  hates 
them  like  a  contagion,  and  never  hesitates  in  its  choice 
between  them  and  vice,  —  vice  is  luxury.  No  matter 
how  majestic  grief  ma}T  be,  society  knows  how  to  be- 
little it,  and  to  ridicule  it  with  a  witticism  ;  it  draws 
caricatures  and  flings  them  at  the  heads  of  dethroned 
monarchs  in  return  for  affronts  it  fancies  it  has  received. 
Like  the  young  Romans  of  the  Circus,  society  has  no 
mercy  for  the  dying  gladiator;  it  battens  on  gold,  it 
lives  by  cruel  mockery.  "  Death  to  the  weak,"  is  the 
cry  of  that  equestrian  order  which  exists  among  all  the 
nations  upon  earth  ;  and  the  sentence  is  written  on 
hearts  that  are  sodden  in  opulence  or  swollen  by  aris- 


286 


The  Magic  Skin. 


tocracy.  Look  at  the  children  in  a  college  school; 
behold  there  a  miniature  image  of  societ}',  all  the  more 
true  because  it  is  artless  and  honest.  See  those  poor 
helots,  creatures  of  pain  and  mortification,  placed  be- 
tween contempt  and  pity  ;  the  gospel  tells  such  as  they 
of  heaven  !  Go  a  little  lower  in  the  scale  of  organized 
beings.  If  a  fowl  falls  sick  in  a  poultry-yard,  all  the 
others  peck  at  it,  pluck  out  its  feathers,  and  finally  kill 
it.  Faithful  to  its  code  of  selfishness,  the  world  pun- 
ishes sorrows  that  dare  to  invade  its  feasts  and  dim 
its  pleasures.  Whoever  suffers  in  body  or  soul,  or  lacks 
power  and  money,  is  a  pariah  in  society.  Let  him  sta}' 
in  his  own  desert  ;  if  he  crosses  the  borders  of  it  he 
enters  arctic  regions,  he  encounters  cold  looks,  cold 
manners,  cold  hearts  ;  he  is  fortunate  if  he  escapes  in- 
sult in  places  where  he  ought  to  look  for  consolation. 
Stay  on  your  deserted  beds,  ye  dying  !  Old  men,  live 
alone  beside  your  smouldering  hearths  !  Poor  portion- 
less girls,  freeze  or  burn  in  yom  solitary  chambers  ! 
If  the  world  tolerates  a  misfortune,  it  is  that  it  may 
fashion  it  to  its  own  uses,  find  some  profit  in  it,  saddle 
it,  bit  it,  put  a  pack  upon  its  back,  and  make  it  serve  a 
purpose.  Trembling  companion  of  some  old  countess, 
look  ga}^  !  bear  the  whimsies  of  your  pretended  benefac- 
tress, carry  her  poodle,  amuse  her,  fathom  her,  but  be 
silent.  And  you,  king  of  valets  out  of  livery,  impudent 
parasite,  leave  your  character  behind  you  ;  feed  with 
your  amphitryon,  weep  with  his  tears,  laugh  with  his 
laughter,  and  call  his  witticisms  wit  ;  if  you  want  to 
deny  his  virtues,  wait  till  he  falls.  No,  the  world 
never  honors  misfortune  ;  it  drives  it  away,  reviles, 
chastises,  or  kills  it. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


287 


These  reflections  rose  in  Raphael's  mind  with  the 
suddenness  of  poetic  inspiration.  He  looked  about 
him,  and  felt  the  frigid  atmosphere  which  societ}^  dif- 
fuses to  drive  emotion  away  from  it,  —  an  atmosphere 
which  chills  the  soul  more  sharply  than  the  north  wind 
of  December  chills  the  body.  Raphael  crossed  his 
arms  and  leaned  against  the  wall,  giving  way  to  deep- 
est melancholy.  He  thought  of  the  small  amount  of 
happiness  this  system  of  society  procured  for  it.  What 
was  it  all?  —  amusements  without  pleasure,  gayety 
without  joy,  fêtes  without  charm,  sensuality  without 
the  enjoyments  of  the  soul  ;  in  short,  the  ashes  of  the 
hearth  without  a  ray  of  flame. 

When  he  raised  his  head  he  saw  that  he  was  alone  ; 
even  the  players  had  left  his  presence. 

"  I  could  make  them  worship  my  cough  if  I  showed 
them  my  fatal  power,"  he  said  to  himself.  As  the 
thought  crossed  his  mind,  contempt,  like  a  mantle, 
wrapped  him  from  the  world. 

On  the  morrow,  the  physician  of  the  Baths  came  to 
him  and  inquired  with  much  courtesy  as  to  his  health. 
Raphael  felt  an  emotion  of  joy  as  he  listened  to  the 
friendly  words.  The  doctor's  face  was  instinct  with 
kindliness,  the  curls  of  his  blond  wig  expressed  phi- 
lanthropy ;  the  cut  of  his  square  coal,  the  folds  of  his 
trousers,  his  shoes,  which  were  broad  as  a  Quaker's, 
all  these  things,  even  the  powder  shed  from  a  little  pig- 
tail on  his  slightly  bent  shoulders,  bespoke  the  apostolic 
nature,  expressed  Christian  charity  and  the  self-devotion 
of  a  man  who,  out  of  zeal  for  his  patients,  had  brought 
himself  to  playing  whist  and  trictrac  well  enough  to  win 
their  money. 


288 


The  Magic  Skin, 


"  Monsieur  le  marquis,"  he  said,  after  talking  some 
time  on  indifferent  subjects,  "  I  believe  I  can  dissipate 
your  sadness.  I  have  watched  your  condition  long 
enough  to  declare  that  the  Parisian  doctors,  whose  great 
genius  I  admire,  are  nevertheless  mistaken  as  to  the 
nature  of  your  malady.  Unless  reduced  by  some  un- 
foreseen circumstances,  Monsieur  le  marquis,  you  have 
vitality  enough  to  live  to  the  age  of  Methusaleh.  Your 
lungs  are  as  strong  as  a  blacksmith's  bellows,  and  your 
stomach  might  shame  an  ostrich.  Nevertheless,  if  you 
remain  in  a  mountainous  atmosphere,  you  certainty  risk 
your  life.  Monsieur  le  marquis  will  understand  me 
when  I  explain  my  meaning,  which  I  will  do  in  few 
words.  Chemistry  proves  that  respiration  is  an  actual 
combustion  of  more  or  less  intensity,  according  to  the 
excess  or  deficiency  of  the  phlogistic  elements  collected 
in  the  organism  of  each  individual  man.  In  yoxx  the 
phlogistic,  that  is,  the  inflammatory  tendency  abounds. 
You  are,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  over-oxygenated  by  the 
ardent  nature  which  belongs  to  men  who  are  destined  to 
great  emotions.  By  breathing  the  keen,  pure  air  which 
stimulates  life  in  men  of  phlegmatic  fibre,  you  increase 
your  tendenc}^  to  rapid  combustion.  One  of  the  condi- 
tions of  your  recovery  is  to  live  in  the  atmosphere  of 
low  regions,  valleys.  Yes,  the  vital  air  of  the  man  of 
genius  is  among  the  rich  pasturages  of  Germany,  at 
Baden-Baden,  or  Toplitz.  If  you  have  no  dislike  of 
England,  her  fogg}'  climate  would  calm  your  natural 
fever.  But  our  baths,  which  are  over  one  thousand 
feet  above  sea-level,  will  prove  fatal  to  you.  At  any 
rate,  that  is  my  opinion,"  he  added,  with  a  modest 
gesture,  "  and  I  give  it  against  my  own  interests, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


289 


because,  if  you  follow  it,  we  shall  have  the  misfortune 
of  losing  you." 

Had  he  omitted  those  last  words,  Raphael  would  have 
been  deceived  by  the  false  kindliness  of  the  specious 
doctor  ;  but  he  was  too  good  an  observer  not  to  notice 
the  tone,  the  gesture,  and  the  glance  which  uncon- 
sciously accompanied  the  last  sentence  of  a  mission 
which  had  no  doubt  been  intrusted  to  him  by  a  number 
of  his  more  cheerful  patients.  Florid  men  of  leisure, 
wrearied-out  old  women,  wandering  British  tourists,  and 
fashionable  women  escaping  from  their  husbands  and 
joined  at  the  Baths  by  their  lovers,  were  all  banded 
together  to  drive  away  the  pale  and  feeble  djing  man 
who  was  evidently  incapable  of  resisting  their  daily 
persecution.  Raphael  accepted  the  struggle,  and  even 
foresaw  some  amusement  in  it. 

"  If  my  departure  would  disappoint  you,"  he  replied, 
u  I  think  I  can  take  advantage  of  your  good  advice, 
and  yet  remain  here.  To-morrow  I  will  begin  to  build 
a  house  in  which  the  air  can  be  regulated  to  meet  your 
prescription.  " 

Rightl}'  interpreting  the  sarcastic  smile  which  he  saw 
on  Raphael's  lips,  the  doctor  bowed  and  went  away 
without  sa}Ting  another  word. 

The  lake  of  Bourget  is  a  vast  cup  of  mountains 
notched  at  intervals,  in  whose  depths,  six  or  seven  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  Mediterranean,  shines  a  drop  of 
water  bluer  than  any  other  water  in  the  world.  Seen  from 
the  summit  of  the  Dent-du-Chat,  the  lake  lies  there  like 
a  lost  turquoise.  This  lovety  sheet  of  water  is  twenty- 
three  miles  in  circumference,  and  in  some  places  nearty 

19 


290 


The  Magic  Skin. 


five  hundred  feet  in  depth.  To  float  upon  its  glassy 
surface  beneath  a  cloudless  sk}-,  to  hear  only  the  rhythm 
of  the  oars,  to  see  nothing  but  the  nristy  mountains  or 
the  sparkling  snows  of  the  French  Maurienne,  to  glide 
b}*  granite  cliffs,  velvet-clothed  with  lichen,  fern,  and  low- 
growing  shrubbery,  and  then  past  smiling  hillsides,  — 
on  one  side  a  desert,  on  the  other,  nature's  best  riches  ; 
like  to  a  pauper  standing  beside  the  dinner  of  opulence, 
—  such  harmonies  and  such  contrasts  compose  a  scene 
where  all  is  grand  and  much  is  lovely.  Mountains 
change  the  conditions  of  optical  effects  ;  a  fir- tree  rising 
a  hundred  feet  looks  like  a  reed,  broad  valleys  seem  as 
narrow  as  footways.  This  lake  is  the  only  one  where 
heart  can  speak  to  heart  in  confidence.  Here  we  may 
think,  here  we  may  love.  In  no  other  spot  on  earth 
can  }Tou  find  so  exquisite  a  unison  of  water  and  sky, 
mountains  and  valley.  Here  may  be  found  a  balm  for 
every  ordeal  of  life.  The  peaceful  region  hides  the 
secrets  of  grief,  soothes,  consoles,  and  lessens  it,  and 
gives  to  love  a  gravity,  a  composure,  which  renders  pas- 
sion purer  and  even  deeper  ;  here  a  kiss  is  magnified. 
But,  above  all,  it  is  the  lake  of  memories  ;  they  take 
the  color  of  its  wraves  in  whose  bright  mirror  all 
things  are  reflected.  Raphael  could  bear  his  burden 
here,  and  only  here  ;  surrounded  b}'  this  calm  land- 
scape, he  could  be  indolent,  and  dreamy,  and  without 
desires. 

After  the  doctor's  visit  he  went  out  upon  the  lake, 
and  made  the  boatman  land  him  on  a  lonely  point,  at 
the  foot  of  a  pretty  hill  on  which  the  village  of  Saint- 
Innocent  is  situated.  From  this  tongue  of  land  the 
eye  takes  in  the  Mont  de  Bugey,  around  whose  feet 


The  Magic  Skin. 


291 


flows  the  Rhone  and  the  lower  waters  of  the  lake  ;  but 
Raphael  loved  best  to  contemplate  from  this  point  the 
melancholy  abbey  of  Haute-Combe,  the  burial-place  of 
the  kings  of  Sardinia,  situated  on  the  opposite  shore, 
and  seeming  to  make  obeisance  before  the  mountains, 
like  a  palmer  attaining  the  end  of  his  pilgrimage.  At 
this  moment  the  cadenced  beat  of  oars  disturbed  the 
stillness  of  the  scene,  and  gave  it  a  monotonous  voice 
like  the  psalmody  of  monks.  Surprised  to  encounter  vis- 
itors in  this  usually  deserted  part  of  the  lake,  the  mar- 
quis examined,  but  without  coming  out  of  his  revery,  the 
persons  seated  in  the  passing  boat,  and  saw  that  one 
was  the  old  lady  who  had  so  sharply  interfered  with 
him  the  night  before.  As  the  boat  passed  him,  Ra- 
phael noticed  that  the  dame  de  compagnie  of  the  lady, 
a  poor  old  maid  of  noble  family,  bowed  to  him. 

He  had  already  forgotten  the  incident,  as  the  boat 
disappeared  behind  the  promontory,  when  he  heard 
close  beside  him  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  and  the  sound 
of  a  light  step.  Turning,  he  saw  the  poor  companion, 
and  judging  from  her  nervous  manner  that  she  wished 
to  speak  to  him,  he  advanced  toward  her.  She  was 
about  thirtjr-six  years  old,  tall  and  thin,  cold  and  hard  ; 
and  like  all  old  maids,  who  are  usually  embarrassed  to 
know  which  way  to  look,  her  gait  was  undecided,  con- 
strained, and  without  elasticity.  Neither  3'oung  nor 
old,  and  yet  both,  she  expressed  by  a  certain  dignity 
of  manner  the  high  estimate  which  she  put  upon  her 
qualities  and  perfections.  She  had,  moreover,  the  dis- 
creet and  monastic  gestures  of  women  who  habitually 
take  care  of  themselves,  doubtless  that  they  may  not 
be  found  wanting  for  their  destiny  of  love. 


TU  Magic  Skin. 


Monsieur,  your  life  is  in  clanger;  do  not  enter  the 
salons  again."  she  said  to  Raphael,  taking  a  few  steps 
backward,  as  if  her  virtue  were  already  compromised. 

"  But,  mademoiselle.''  answered  Raphael,  smiling, 
•  •  will  you  not  kindly  explain  yourself,  since  you  have 
deigned  to  come  here  —  " 

"  Ah  !  n  she  said.  i;  without  the  powerful  motive  that 
has  brought  me.  I  should  not  have  dared  to  risk  the 
anger  of  Madame  la  comtesse,  for  if  she  knew  that  I 
had  warned  you  —  " 

,;  Who  should  tell  her.  mademoiselle  ?  "  cried  Raphael. 
True."  said  the  old  maid,  with  the  blinking  glance 
of  an  owl  in  the  sunlight.  ;i  Think  of  your  safety." 
she  continued:  "  several  young  men  are  determined 
to  drive  you  away  :  they  mean  to  insult  you,  and  force 
you  to  fight  a  duel." 

The  voice  of  the  old  countess  was  heard  in  the 
distance. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  marquis.  -  my  gratitude  —  " 
His  protectress  had  already  left  him  at  the  sound  of 
her  mistress's  voice,  which  continued  to  screech  beyond 
the  rocks. 

"  Poor  girl  !  misery  understands  misery  and  tries  to 
succor  it,"  thought  Raphael,  sitting  down  under  a  tree. 

The  key  to  all  science  is,  undoubtedly,  the  note  of 
interrogation  :  we  owe  most  of  our  great  discoveries  to 
the  word  How?"  and  the  wisdom  of  life  consists  in 
asking  ourselves  at  every  turn.  "  Why?"  This  second- 
hand prescience  destroys  our  illusions,  however.  And 
so.  Valentin,  having  taken,  without  intending  to  phi- 
losophize, the  kind  deed  of  the  old  maid  as  a  text  for  his 
rambling  thoughts,  suddenly  found  it  full  of  bitterness. 


The  Magic  Skin. 


293 


"  That  an  old  dame  de  compagnie  should  fancy  me," 
he  thought,  "  is  nothing  extraordinary;  I  am  twenty- 
seven  }^ears  old,  titled,  and  rich.  But  that  her  mistress, 
that  woman  with  a  voice  like  the  roof-cats,  should  have 
brought  her  here  in  a  boat  at  this  time  of  day,  is  some- 
thing surprising,  if  not  marvellous.  Those  women 
came  to  Savoie  to  sleep  like  marmots,  expecting  sunrise 
at  mid-day,  and  here  they  are  getting  up  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  setting  out  in  pursuit  of  me." 

But  before  long  the  old  maid  and  her  quadragenary 
frankness  struck  him  as  only  another  scene  in  the  artful 
and  malicious  play  of  life,  —  a  low  trick,  a  clumsy  plot, 
a  manoeuvre  of  priests  and  women.  Was  the  duel  an 
invention,  simply  intended  to  frighten  him  away?  In- 
solent and  irritating  as  flies,  these  narrow  minds  had 
succeeded  in  pricking  his  vanity,  rousing  his  pride,  and 
exciting  his  curiosity.  Determined'  not  to  be  their 
dupe,  nor  to  be  thought  a  coward,  and  amused,  it  may 
be,  at  the  little  drama,  he  went  to  the  Assembly  rooms 
that  evening.  As  he  stood  erect  and  tranquil,  with  his 
elbow  on  the  marble  chimney-piece  of  the  principal 
salon,  he  examined  the  faces  of  those  who  passed  him, 
and  challenged,  as  it  were,  the  whole  compan}^.  Like 
a  bull-dog  sure  of  his  own  strength,  he  awaited  the  fight 
without  barking.  i 

Toward  the  end  of  the  evening  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  card-room,  casting  an  occasional  glance  at 
the  young  men  who  were  playing  in  the  billiard-room. 
After  a  while  he  heard  one  of  the  latter  mention  his  name. 
Though  their  voices  were  low,  Raphael  easilj'  perceived 
he  was  the  theme  of  an  argument,  and  finally  of  a 
wager.   "  Will  you  bet?  "   "  Ob,  yes,  we  can  drive  him 


294 


The  Magic  Skin. 


away,"  At  this  moment,  when  Valentin,  curious  to 
know  the  exact  meaning  of  the  wager,  entered  the 
billiard-room,  a  tall,  young  man  with  an  agreeable  face 
came  up  to  him. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  in  a  quiet  tone,  "I  am  com- 
missioned to  tell  you  something  which  you  appear  to 
ignore.  Your  face  and  person  are  not  agreeable  to  the 
society  of  this  place,  and  to  me  in  particular.  You  are 
too  polite  not  to  sacrifice  yourself  for  the  general  good, 
and  I  request  you  not  to  appear  here  again." 

"  Monsieur,  this  joke,  which  was  perpetrated  many 
times  under  the  Empire  in  various  garrisons,  is  now 
extremely  ill-bred,"  said  Raphael,  coldly. 

"I  am  not  joking,"  replied  the  young  man.  "I 
repeat  what  I  said  ;  your  health  will  suffer  seriously  if 
you  stay  here  any  longer.  The  heat,  the  lights,  the 
atmosphere  of  these  rooms  will  develop  your  malady." 

"  Where  did  you  study  medicine?  "  asked  Raphael. 

u  Monsieur,  I  graduated  from  Lepage's  pistol-gallery 
in  Paris,  and  took  my  degree  of  doctor  from  Cérizier, 
prince  of  foils." 

"  You  have  still  another  grade  to  win,"  replied  Val- 
entin ;  "  study  the  code  of  civility  and  you  will  be  a 
perfect  gentleman." 

At  these  words,  all  the  young  men  present  crowded 
round  them,  silent  and  smiling.  The  card-players  left 
their  game  and  listened  to  the  quarrel  with  satisfaction. 
Alone,  in  the  midst  of  this  hostile  company,  Raphael  tried 
to  maintain  his  self-possession,  and  to  give  no  ground 
of  offence  ;  but  his  antagonist  having  uttered  a  sarcasm 
the  insolence  of  which  was  wrapped  in  peculiarly  inci- 
sive and  witty  language,  he  answered  deliberately  :  — 


The  Magic  Skin. 


295 


1  c  Monsieur,  it  is  not  permissible  in  these  days  to  box 
a  man's  ears,  and  I  do  not  know  with  what  words  to 
brand  }rour  cowardly  conduct." 

"Enough!  enough!  you  can  explain  to-morrow," 
cried  several  young  men,  flinging  themselves  between 
the  antagonists. 

Raphael  left  the  room,  apparently  the  aggressor, 
having  agreed  on  a  meeting  the  following  day,  in  a 
small  meadow  near  the  chateau  de  Bordeau  and  not 
far  from  the  main  road  to  Lyons,  along  which  the 
conqueror  could  readily  escape. 

The  next  morning  by  eight  o'clock  Raphael's  adver- 
sary, the  two  seconds,  and  a  surgeon  arrived  on  the 
ground ► 

"  We  shall  do  very  well  here,  —  splendid  weather  for 
a  duel,"  cried  the  young  man  gayly,  looking  at  the  blue 
sky,  the  water  of  the  lake,  and  the  mountains,  without 
a  thought  of  death.  "  If  I  can  wing  him,  I  shall  put 
him  to  bed  for  a  month  ;  hey,  doctor?  " 

"At  the  very  least,"  replied  the  surgeon.  "But 
don't  twist  that  willow-branch  ;  you  will  tire  your  hand 
and  not  fire  steady  ;  in  that  case  you  might  kill  your 
man  instead  of  wounding  him." 

The  roll  of  a  carriage  was  heard.  f 

u  Here  he  comes,"  said  the  seconds,  who  soon  made 
out  on  the  high  road  a  travelling- carriage  drawn  by 
four  horses  managed  by  two  postilions. 

"What  an  odd  fellow,"  cried  Valentin's  adversary; 
"  he  comes  in  fine  style  to  be  killed." 

A  duel  is  like  a  game  ;  the  slightest  incident  affects 
the  mind  of  players  who  are  strongly  interested  in 
the  success  of  a  throw  ;  and  the  young  man  certainly 


296 


The  Magic  Skin, 


awaited  the  approach  of  the  carriage  with  some  uneasi- 
ness. Old  Jonathas  first  emerged  clumsily,  and  then 
turned  to  assist  Raphael.  He  supported  him  in  his 
feeble  arms  with  all  the  minute  care  a  lover  bestows  on 
his  mistress.  Both  disappeared  in  the  shrubbery  which 
separated  the  road  from  the  meadow,  and  came  in  sight 
after  some  delay  ;  they  were  seen  to  be  walking  slowly. 
The  four  spectators  of  this  strange  scene  were  con- 
scious of  some  emotion  when  they  saw  Raphael  leaning 
heavily  on  the  servant's  arm.  Pale  and  unstrung,  he 
walked  like  a  gouty  man,  and  did  not  utter  a  word. 
They  seemed  like  a  pair  of  broken-down  old  men,  — 
one  broken  by  time,  the  other  by  thought  ;  the  age  of 
the  first  was  written  on  his  white  hairs,  but  the  younger 
man  was  no  longer  of  an}T  age. 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  not  slept  all  night,"  said  Raphael 
to  his  adversary. 

The  icy  tone  and  terrible  glance  which  accompanied 
the  words  made  the  real  aggressor  tremble  ;  he  was 
conscious  of  being  the  one  to  blame,  and  he  felt  a  secret 
shame  at  his  conduct.  In  Raphael's  whole  attitude, 
voice,  and  gesture,  there  was  something  unnatural. 
The  marquis  paused  ;  every  one  was  silent  ;  the  atten- 
tion and  the  uneasiness  of  all  present  was  at  its 
height. 

44  There  is  still  time,"  said  Valentin  slowly,  "-to 
make  me  some  slight  apology  ;  give  it  to  me,  mon- 
sieur ;  if  not  you  must  die.  You  are  reckoning  on  your 
prowess  ;  you  do  not  shrink  from  a  combat  in  which, 
as  you  believe,  all  the  advantage  lies  on  your  side. 
Well,  I  am  generous  ;  I  warn  you  of  my  superiority. 
I  possess  a  terrible  power.     I  can  neutralize  your 


The  Magic  Skin. 


297 


science,  bewilder  your  eyes,  make  your  hands  tremble 
and  your  heart  beat  by  a  mere  wish.  I  do  not  wish  to 
exercise  this  power,  it  costs  me  too  dear.  If  I  use  it, 
j'ou  will  not  be  the  only  one  to  die.  Should  you  refuse 
to  make  me  this  apology,  your  ball  will  glance  aside  in 
the  water  of  that  cascade  in  spite  of  your  duelling-prac- 
tice, and  mine  will  go  straight  to  your  heart,  though  I 
shall  take  no  aim." 

As  he  said  these  words  the  marquis  kept  the  intoler- 
able brightness  of  his  eye  steadily  fixed  on  his  adver- 
sary ;  he  straightened  himself  up,  and  now  showed  an 
impassive  face,  like  that  of  a  dangerous  madman. 

"  Silence  him,"  said  the  young  man  to  his  second, 
"his  voice  wrings       very  entrails." 

"  Monsieur,  be  silent.  Your  remarks  are  useless," 
cried  the  surgeon  and  the  second  together. 

u  Gentlemen,  I  fulfil  a  duty.  Has  this  young  man 
any  affairs  to  settle  ?  " 

"  Enough,  enough  !  " 

The  marquis  stood  motionless,  without  taking  his  eye 
for  one  instant  from  his  adversary,  who,  apparently 
under  the  influence  of  some  magnetic  power,  seemed 
like  a  bird  before  a  snake.  Compelled  to  endure  that 
homicidal  glance,  he  tried  to  avoid  it,  but  was  unable 
to  do  so. 

"  Give  me  some  water,  I  am  thirsty,"  he  said  to  his 
second. 

-  '  Are  you  nervous  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  the  burning  eye  of  that  man 
casts  a  spell  upon  me." 
"  Will  you  apologize?  " 
"It  is  too  late." 


298 


The  Magic  Skin. 


The  adversaries  were  placed  at  fifteen  paces  from 
each  other.  Each  took  his  pistol  :  according  to  the 
rules  of  the  ceremony,  each  was  to  fire  two  shots  when 
and  how  he  pleased  after  the  seconds  had  given  the 
signal. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Charles?"  cried  the  young 
man  who  was  acting  as  second  to  Raphael's  antagonist. 
"  You  are  putting  in  the  ball  before  the  powder." 

MI  am  a  dead  man."  he  answered;  --you  have  put 
me  with  my  face  to  the  sun.'' 

"  The  sun  is  behind  you."  said  Valentin,  in  a  solemn 
voice,  slowly  loading  his  pistol  and  paying  no  attention 
to  the  fact  that  the  signal  was  already  given,  nor  to  the 
care  with  which  his  adversary  adjusted  his  aim. 

There  was  something  terrifying  about  this  easy  as- 
surance, which  affected  even  the  two  postilions  who  had 
approached  the  scene  with  cruel  curiosity.  Raphael, 
either  playing  with  his  power  or  wishing  to  test  it.  was 
talking  to  Jonathas  at  the  moment  when  his  adversary 
fired.  The  ball  broke  a  small  branch  of  a  willow-tree 
and  ricochetted  upon  the  water.  Firing  at  random, 
Eaphael  shot  his  antagonist  through  the  heart.  Then, 
without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  the  young  man, 
he  pulled  out  the  Magic  Skin  to  see  how  much  of  life 
that  other  human  life  had  cost  him.  The  talisman  was 
now  no  larger  than  a  small  oak-leaf. 

4i  Well.''  he  cried  to  the  postilions,  "what  are  you 
gazing  at  ?    To  your  saddles  —  let  us  start  !  " 

Arriving  the  same  night  in  France,  he  started  imme- 
diately for  the  Baths  of  the  Mont  Dore.  During  the 
journey  there  came  into  his  mind  one  of  those  sudden 


The  Magic  Skin. 


299 


thoughts  which  fall  like  a  ray  of  light  across  the  thick 
shadows  of  a  darksome  valley,  —  a  melancholy  light,  an 
implacable  wisdom,  which  illumines  past  events,  unveils 
to  us  our  faults,  and  leaves  us  unforgiven  before  the 
tribunal  of  our  own  souls.  He  thought  all  at  once  how 
the  possession  of  power,  no  matter  how  mighty  that 
power  may  be,  does  not  bring  with  it  the  knowledge  of 
how  to  use  it.  The  sceptre  is  a  plaything  to  a  child, 
an  axe  to  Richelieu,  to  Napoleon  the  lever  that  over- 
turned the  world.  Power  leaves  us  such  as  we  are  ;  it 
exalts  none  but  the  exalted.  Raphael  might  have  done 
all  things  ;  he  had  done  nothing. 

At  the  Baths  of  the  Mont  Dore  he  encountered  the 
same  society,  which  again  shrank  away  from  him  with 
the  haste  of  an  animal  fleeing  from  the  carcass  of  one 
of  its  kind  which  it  scents  from  afar.  The  hatred  was 
reciprocal.  The  last  incident  in  his  career  had  given 
him  an  abiding  aversion  for  society.  His  first  care  was 
therefore  to  find  himself  a  spot  of  refuge  away  from  the 
surroundings  of  the  Baths.  He  instinctively  felt  the 
need  of  drawing  near  to  nature,  to  the  true  emotions  of 
that  vegetative  life  at  which  we  complacently  play  for 
awhile  as  we  wander  in  the  fields.  The  day  after  his 
arrival,  he  ascended,  not  without  difficult}7,  the  Pic  de 
Sancy,  visited  the  upland  valleys,  sought  out  the  aerial 
scenery,  the  forgotten  lakes,  the  rustic  cottages  of  the 
Dore  mountains,  whose  wild  and  rugged  charm  is  be- 
ginning to  attract  the  pencils  of  our  artists.  Some- 
times he  found  exquisite  bits  of  landscape,  full  of  grace 
and  freshness,  which  contrasted  vividly  with  the  danger- 
ous aspect  of  the  desolate  mountains.  Soon  he  came 
upon  a  spot,  over  a  mile  from  the  village,  where  nature 


300 


The  Magic  Skin. 


seemed  to  have  delighted  in  hiding  her  treasures.  After 
he  had  carefully  examined  this  unspoiled  and  picturesque 
retreat,  he  resolved  to  live  there.  Existence,  he  thought, 
must  be  tranquil,  spontaneous,  fruitful,  like  the  life  of 
plants,  in  such  a  nook. 

Imagine  a  reversed  cone  —  a  granite  cone  —  deeply 
hollowed  out,  a  sort  of  basin  with  its  edges  chipped 
into  irregular  waving  lines  ;  on  the  one  side  are  flat 
tables  of  rock  without  vegetation,  smooth  and  bluish  in 
tint,  on  which  the  sun-rays  glisten  as  on  a  mirror  ;  on 
the  other,  high  cliffs  split  by  fissures,  broken  into  by 
ravines,  crowned  with  stunted  trees  gnarled  by  the 
wind,  from  the  sides  of  wThich  hang  bowlders  whose  fall 
is  slowly  being  compassed  by  the  freshets.  Here  and 
there  were  shady  cool  recesses,  from  which  the  chest- 
nut-trees rose  high  as  cedars,  or  grottos,  burrowing  in 
the  yellow  earth,  opened  their  deep  dark  mouths  fringed 
with  brier  and  flowering  shrubs,  and  stretched  forth  long 
tongues  of  grass.  At  the  bottom  of  this  inverted  cup, 
possibly  the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano,  was  a  pool, 
whose  pure  clear  water  had  the  brilliancy  of  a  diamond. 
Around  this  basin,  held  in  by  granite  rocks  and  bor- 
dered with  willows,  ash- trees,  water-flags  and  many 
other  aromatic  plants  which  were  then  in  flower,  lay  a 
strip  of  greensward,  as  smooth  and  velvety  as  an  Eng- 
lish lawn.  The  soft  fine  grass  was  irrigated  by  tiny 
streamlets  filtering  among  the  rocks,  and  nourished 
by  vegetable  deposits  washed  down  from  the  mountain 
heights  to  the  valleys  incessantly  by  rains.  The  pool, 
irregularly  dented,  or  scalloped  round  its  edges  like  the 
bottom  of  a  dress,  was  about  three  acres  in  extent. 
According  as  the  cliffs  approached  the  water  or  receded 


The  Magic  Skin. 


301 


from  it,  the  intervening  meadow  land  was  an  acre,  or 
even  two  acres  in  width,  though  in  some  places  barely 
enough  ground  was  left  for  the  passage  of  cows. 

At  a  certain  height  on  the  mountain  sides  vegetation 
ceased.  The  granite  rocks  assumed  to  the  eye  fantas- 
tic shapes,  taking  on  those  vaporous  tints  which  lend 
to  the  tops  of  mountains  a  likeness  to  the  clouds  of  the 
sky,  with  which  indeed  they  seemed  to  blend.  These 
bare  and  barren  cliffs,  these  wild  and  sterile  images  of 
desolation,  these  land-slips  to  be  dreaded,  these  shapes 
so  weird  that  one  rock  is  named  the  "  Capuchin,"  from 
likeness  to  a  monk,  formed  a  strong  contrast  to  the 
soft  beauty  of  the  valley.  Here  and  there  the  pointed 
peaks,  the  beetling  rocks,  the  caverns  far  up  the  heights, 
were  illuminated  by  the  course  of  the  sun,  or  by  the  ca- 
prices of  the  atmosphere,  with  tints  of  gold  or  shades 
of  purple  changing  into  rosy  red  and  dying  into  grays. 
The  aspect  of  the  mountains  changed  continually  with 
the  changing  lights  and  colors,  like  the  iridescent  reflec- 
tions on  a  pigeon's  neck.  Often  between  two  cliffs  of 
rock,  so  near  together  that  you  might  have  thought 
them  cleft  by  the  axe  of  a  giant,  a  lovely  ray  of  sun- 
light penetrated  at  the  rising  or  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
until  it  reached  the  depths  of  the  sailing  valley  where 
the  waters  of  the  pool  were  shining,  like  the  line  of 
golden  light  from  the  shutter  of  a  Spanish  bedroom 
closed  for  the  siesta.  When  the  sun  la}^  directly  over 
the  extinct  crater,  filled  with  water  by  some  antedi- 
luvian cataclysm,  the  flinty  basin  grew  hot,  the  old 
volcano  glowed,  the  quickening  warmth  germinated  the 
seeds,  budded  the  vegetation,  colored  the  flowers,  and 
ripened  the  fruit  of  this  tiny  lost  corner  of  the  earth. 


302 


The  Magic  Skin. 


As  Raphael  approached,  he  noticed  a  number  of  cows 
feeding  in  the  meadow  ;  after  taking  a  few  steps  toward 
the  pool  he  saw,  at  a  spot  where  the  level  land  wras 
widest,  a  humble  little  house  built  of  granite  and  roofed 
with  wood.  This  roof  wTas  covered,  in  true  harmony 
with  the  situation,  by  mosses,  lichens,  ivies,  and  a  few 
flowers  of  ancient  growth.  A  slender  smoke,  of  which 
the  birds  were  no  longer  afraid,  rose  from  the  ruined 
chimney.  At  the  door  was  a  wide  bench  placed  be- 
tween two  honeysuckles  in  full  bloom  and  fragrance. 
The  walls  of  the  cottage  could  scarcely  be  seen  beneath 
the  branches  of  these  vines  and  the  garlands  of  roses 
and  jessamine  which  crossed  and  covered  them  at  their 
own  sweet  will.  Indifferent  to  these  rural  adornments, 
the  inhabitants  of  the  house  had  taken  no  pains  to  train 
them,  allowing  nature  to  follow  her  virgin  and  tricksome 
grace.  Baby-clothes  were  drying  on  a  currant-bush. 
A  cat  was  curled  up  on  a  machine  for  stripping  hemp, 
beneath  which,  a  copper  caldron,  recently  scoured,  was 
lying  beside  a  pile  of  potato-parings.  Raphael  noticed 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house  an  in  closure  of  dry  brush- 
wood, intended  no  doubt  to  keep  chickens  from  scratch- 
ing among  the  fruits  and  vegetables. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  world  ended  here.  The 
house  was  like  certain  bird's-nests  ingeniously  built  in 
the  cleft  of  a  rock,  specimens  of  science  and  careless- 
ness combined.  It  bespoke  a  simple,  honest  nature, 
a  true  rusticity,  that  was  poetical  because  it  flourished 
ten  thousand  miles  away  from  our  conventional  poetry, 
because  it  had  no  analogy  with  ideas,  but  expressed 
itself  alone  —  a  simple  triumph  of  chance. 

As  Raphael  stood  there,  the  sun  was  casting  its  rays 


The  Magic  Skin. 


303 


from  right  to  left,  bringing  out  the  colors  of  the  vege- 
tation, and  setting  in  full  relief,  with  the  spell  of  its 
splendor  and  the  appositions  of  shade,  the  gray  and 
yellow  rocks,  the  varying  greens  of  the  foliage,  the 
blue  and  red  and  white  masses  of  flowers,  the  climb- 
ing plants  with  their  hanging  bell-blooms,  the  chang- 
ing tints  of  the  velvet  mosses,  the  purple  clusters  of 
the  heather,  but  above  all,  the  sheet  of  clear  water 
which  reflected  the  granite  heights,  the  trees,  the  cot- 
tage, and  the  sky.  In  that  delightful  picture  all  things 
had  their  own  lustre,  from  the  mica  of  the  rocks  to  the 
tuft  of  yellow  money-wort  hiding  in  the  soft  half-light. 
All  was  harmonious  to  the  eye,  —  the  brindled  cow  with 
polished  hide,  the  frail  aquatic  blossoms  bending  like 
fringes  above  the  water  in  little  nooks  where  insects, 
robed  in  emerald  or  azure,  hummed,  and  roots  of  trees 
like  strands  of  hair  stretched  out  and  lost  themselves 
among  the  shallows.  The  warm  odors  of  the  water, 
the  flowers,  and  the  grottos  which  perfumed  this  soli- 
tar}r  retreat  gave  Raphael  a  sensation  that  was  almost 
enjoyment,  —  a  divine  enjoyment  of  the  soul. 

The  majestic  silence  which  reigned  in  this  embowered 
spot,  forgotten  perhaps  on  the  tax-lists,  was  suddenly 
interrupted  by  the  barking  of  two  dogs.  The  cows 
turned  their  heads  toward  the  entrance  to  the  valley, 
showing  Raphael  their  moist  muzzles,  and  then  after 
gazing  at  him  stupidly,  they  began  to  feed  again. 
Hanging  to  the  rocks  as  if  by  magic,  a  goat  and  her 
kid  were  capering  in  mid- air  ;  presently  they  came  and 
stood  on  a  granite  shelf  near  to  Valentin's  head,  as  if 
they  meant  to  question  him.  The  yelping  of  the  dogs 
brought  out  a  fat  child,  who  stood  stock-still  with  his 


304 


The  Magic  Skin. 


mouth  open  ;  then  came  a  white-haired  old  man  of 
medium  height.  These  human  beings  were  in  keep- 
ing with  the  scenery,  the  atmosphere,  the  verdure,  and 
the  house.  Health  superabounded  in  the  midst  of 
this  exuberant  nature  ;  old  age  and  infancy  were 
equally  sound  and  wholesome  ;  there  was,  in  fact,  in 
all  these  types  of  existence  a  primordial  ease,  a  routine 
happiness  which  gave  the  lie  to  oui-  dull  philosophical 
homilies. 

The  old  man  would  have  made  an  invaluable  model 
for  the  virile  brush  of  Schnetz,  with  his  brown  face 
covered  by  countless  wrinkles  that  seemed  as  though 
they  might  be  rough  to  the  touch,  a  straight  nose,  high 
cheek-bones  veined  with  red  like  an  old  vine-leaf,  a 
bony  frame  with  every  characteristic  of  vigor  even 
where  vigor  had  ceased  to  be,  and  his  calloused  hands, 
horn}'  though  he  no  longer  worked  with  them,  covered 
by  thin  white  hairs.  His  whole  bearing  was  that  of  a 
free  man,  and  gave  the  impression  that  in  Itaty  he 
might  at  some  time  have  been  a  brigand  out  of  love  for 
his  precious  liberty.  The  child,  a  true  little  mountain- 
eer, had  a  pair  of  black  eyes  that  could  look  at  the 
sun  without  winking,  a  swarthy  skin,  and  brown  hair 
matted  and  tangled.  He  was  nimble  and  resolute  on 
his  feet,  as  natural  in  his  movements  as  a  bird,  ill- 
clothed  and  ragged,  the  white,  fresh  skin  of  childhood 
showing  through  the  rents  in  his  garments.  The  child 
and  the  old  man  both  stood  still  in  silence,  moved  by 
one  and  the  same  feeling,  their  faces  expressing  a  per- 
fect accord  of  idleness  in  their  lives.  The  old  man 
adopted  the  games  of  the  child,  and  the  child  the 
humors  of  the  old  man,  by  a  sort  of  compact  between 


The  Magic  Skin. 


305 


their  mutual  weaknesses,  —  between  a  vigor  near  its 
end,  and  a  force  about  to  unfold  itself. 

Presently  a  woman,  thirty  years  of  age,  came  out  on 
the  sill  of  the  open  door,  knitting  as  she  walked.  She 
wras  an  Auvergnate,  high-colored,  jovial,  frank,  with  white 
teeth, — Auvergne  in  face,  Auvergne  in  shape,  headdress 
and  costume  Auvergne,  with  the  plump  bosom  of  Au- 
vergne, and  above  all  its  speech.  She  was  a  complete 
idealization  of  the  country,  its  laborious  habits,  its  igno- 
rance, thrift,  and  cordiality  —  they  were  all  in  her. 

She  saluted  Raphael,  and  they  entered  into  conver- 
sation ;  the  dogs  quieted  down,  the  old  man  seated 
himself  on  a  bench  in  the  sun,  and  the  child  followed 
his  mother  wherever  she  went,  silent,  but  attentive  and 
still  examining  the  stranger. 

u  Are  you  not  afraid  to  live  here,  my  good  woman?" 

"  And  what  should  make  us  afraid,  monsieur?  We 
bar  the  entrance  to  our  valley,  and  so  who  can  get  in  ? 
Oh,  no,  we 've  no  fear.  Besides,"  she  added,  inviting 
the  marquis  to  step  into  the  living-room  of  the  house, 
"  what  could  robbers  find  to  steal  here?  " 

She  pointed  to  the  smoke-stained  walls  on  which 
were  hung,  as  sole  ornament,  those  colored  images  in 
blue,  red,  and  green,  which  represent  the  "  Death  of 
Credit,"  the  "  Passion  of  our  Lord,"  and  the  "  Grena- 
diers of  the  Imperial  Guard."  Here  and  there  at 
intervals  about  the  room  stood  an  old  four-post  bed- 
stead, a  table  with  twisted  legs,  a  few  stools,  a  knead- 
ing-trough, a  pot  of  lard  hanging  from  the  rafters,  some 
salt  in  a  box,  and  a  stove  ;  on  the  chimney-piece  were 
several  yellow  plaster-figures  highly  colored.  Coming 
out  of  the  house,  Raphael  saw  a  man  among  the  rocks 

20 


306 


The  Magic  Skin. 


with  a  hoe  in  his  hand,  leaning  forward  inquisitively, 
and  watching  the  house. 

u  Monsieur,  that 's  my  man,"  said  the  Auvergnate, 
with  the  smile  peculiar  to  peasant- women  ;  "  he  is 
digging  up  there." 

"  Is  that  old  man  your  father?" 

"  Beg  pardon,  but  he  is  my  man's  grandfather. 
Such  as  you  see  him  he  is  one  hundred  and  two  years 
old.  Hey,  well  !  would  you  think  it,  he  walked  our 
little  fellow  to  Clermont  the  other  day.  He 's  been  a 
strong  man,  he.  Now  he  can't  do  much  but  sleep  and 
eat  and  drink.  But  he  ?s  alwa}'s  playing  with  the 
little  one.  Sometimes  the  rogue  wants  him  to  go  up 
the  heights,  and  he  goes,  too." 

Raphael  resolved  to  live  with  that  old  man  and  child  ; 
to  breathe  the  same  atmosphere,  eat  their  bread,  drink 
their  water,  sleep  with  their  sleep,  and  get  their  blood 
into  his  veins.  Fantastic  notion  of  a  dj'ing  man  !  To 
become  a  limpet  on  those  rocks,  to  preserve  his  shell 
a  few  days  longer  by  cheating  death,  seemed  to  him 
the  essence  of  individual  morality,  the  true  formula  of 
human  existence,  the  beau-ideal  of  life,  the  only  life, 
the  true  life.  Into  his  heart  there  came  one  sole  absorb- 
ing selfishness  which  blotted  out  the  universe.  To  him 
there  was  no  universe  ;  the  universe  was  he,  himself. 
To  a  sick  man  the  world  begins  at  his  pillow  and  ends 
at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 

Who  has  not,  at  some  period  of  his  life,  watched  the 
goings  and  comings  of  an  ant,  slipped  a  straw  into  the 
only  orifice  by  which  a  slug  can  breathe,  studied  the 
caprices  of  a  dragon-fly,  admired  the  thousand  little 
veins  colored  like  the  rose  window  of  a  cathedral,  which 


The  Magic  Skin. 


detach  themselves  from  the  reddish  ground  of  a  young 
oak-leaf?  Who  has  never  seen  with  delight  the  effect 
of  sun  and  rain  upon  a  roof  of  brown  tiles,  or  watched 
the  glitter  of  the  dew-drops,  the  petals  of  the  flowers, 
and  the  varied  shapes  of  their  calyces  ?  Who  has  never 
plunged  into  sweet  material  reveries,  indolent  yet  busy, 
without  object,  but  leading,  nevertheless,  to  a  thought? 
In  short,  who  has  not,  at  some  time,  lived  the  life  of 
childhood,  the  life  of  idleness,  the  life  of  the  savage, 
without  his  toils  ?  Thus  lived  Raphael  for  several  days  ; 
without  cares,  without  wishes  ;  feeling  a  renewed  life,  an 
extraordinary  well-being,  which  calmed  his  fears,  and 
abated  his  sufferings.  He  scaled  the  heights  and  sat  on 
a  peak  from  which  his  eyes  could  take  in  a  landscape 
of  immense  extent.  There  he  passed  whole  da}^s  like  a 
plant  in  the  sun,  like  a  hare  in  her  form.  At  other 
times  he  made  himself  familiar  with  the  phenomena  of 
vegetation,  with  the  changefulness  of  the  skies  ;  he 
watched  the  evolution  of  all  things  on  the  earth,  in  the 
waters,  in  the  atmosphere. 

He  tried  to  associate  himself  with  the  inward  move- 
ment of  the  nature  about  him,  to  identify  himself  so 
completely  with  its  passive  obedience  as  to  come  under 
the  despotic  and  preservative  law  which  governs  mere 
instinctive  existences.  He  desired  to  have  charge  of 
himself  no  longer.  Like  criminals  in  the  olden  time 
who,  when  pursued  by  justice,  were  saved  if  they  could 
reach  the  shadow  of  an  altar,  he  strove  to  enter  the 
sanctuary  of  this  still  life.  He  succeeded  in  becoming 
an  integral  part  of  the  nature  about  him  ;  he  shared 
the  inclemenc}T  of  the  weather,  lived  in  the  hollow  clefts 
of  the  rocks,  learned  the  habits  and  ways  of  the  plants, 


308 


The  Magic  Shin. 


studied  the  S3Tstem  of  the  waters,  knew  their  rise  and 
fall,  and  made  acquaintance  with  the  animals  ;  in  short, 
he  became  so  completely  one  with  this  inanimate  earth 
that  he  had,  in  a  measure,  seized  its  heart  and  pene- 
trated its  secrets.  To  his  mind,  the  infinite  number  of 
forms  in  all  the  kingdoms,  animal,  vegetable,  and  min- 
eral, were  the  developments  of  one  substance,  the  com- 
binations of  one  movement,  the  vast  breathings  of  a  vast 
being,  acting,  growing,  moving,  thinking,  with  whom  he 
wished  to  grow  and  move  and  think  and  act.  With  fan- 
tastic insistence  he  blended  his  life  with  the  life  of  those 
rocks  and  became  as  it  were  imbedded  in  them. 

Thanks  to  this  mysterious  illuminism,  working  a  fan- 
cied convalescence,  like  the  beneficent  delirium  granted 
by  nature  to  serve  as  a  respite  from  suffering,  Raphael 
enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  a  second  childhood  during  the 
first  days  of  his  sojourn  in  this  smiling  vallej-.  He 
went  about  busy  with  a  thousand  nothings,  beginning 
many  things  and  finishing  none  ;  forgetting  on  the 
morrow  the  plans  of  the  night  before.  He  was  happy  ; 
he  believed  himself  saved.  One  morning  he  happened 
to  stay  late  in  bed,  plunged  in  one  of  those  sweet 
reveries  between  waking  and  sleeping  which  lend  to 
reality  the  appearances  of  fancy,  and  give  to  chimeras 
the  relief  of  existence,  when  suddenly,  without  at  first 
knowing  whether  or  not  it  was  the  continuation  of  his 
dream,  he  heard  a  bulletin  of  his  health  given  by  the 
woman  of  the  house  to  Jonathas,  who  came  each  morn- 
ing to  inquire  for  him.  The  Auvergnate,  supposing  no 
doubt  that  Raphael  was  still  asleep,  took  no  pains  to 
lower  the  tones  of  her  mountain  voice. 

"He's  neither  better  nor  worse,"  she  was  saying. 


The  Magic  Shin. 


309 


"  He  has  coughed  all  this  night  fit  to  tear  him  to  bits. 
He  coughs  and  spits,  the  dear  gentleman,  till  it  makes 
my  heart  ache.  My  man  and  I,  we  keep  wondering 
where  he  gets  the  strength  to  cough  like  that.  What  a 
cursed  disease  it  is  !  I 'm  afraid  every  morning^  that  I 
shall  find  him  dead  in  his  bed.  He 's  as  white  as  a  wax 
Jesus.  Goodness  !  I  see  him  sometimes  when  he  gets 
out  of  bed,  —  hey  !  his  poor  body  is  as  lean  as  a  rake. 
But  it  don't  seem  to  matter  to  him  ;  he  scrambles  about 
the  rocks  and  spends  his  strength  just  as  if  he  had  it  to 
sell.  He  has  got  a  deal  of  courage,  and  he  never  com- 
plains. But  as  true  as  you're  there,  he  had  better  be 
underground  than  afoot,  for  he  suffers  the  torments  of 
hell.  Not  that  I  desire  it,  monsieur;  no,  it's  against 
our  interests  ;  but  I  don't  think  of  them.  Ah,  good 
God  !  "  she  cried,  "it  is  only  Parisians  who  die  such  a 
dog's  death.  How  did  he  get  such  a  disease?  Poor 
young  man  !  He  fancies  he  is  going  to  get  well  ;  but 
that  fever,  don't  you  see,  is  just  eating  him  up;  it  will 
be  the  death  of  him,  though  he  does  n't  seem  to  see  it  ; 
he  does  n't  see  anything.  Don't  you  weep  for  him, 
Monsieur  Jonathas  ;  you  must  think  how  much  happier 
he  '11  be  not  to  suffer  any  more.  Say  a  novena  for  him. 
I 've  seen  some  fine  cures  done  by  nov^enas  ;  and  I  '11 
pay  a  wax-taper  to  save  the  poor  creature  —  so  good 
and  gentle  ;  why,  he 's  like  a  paschal  lamb  — " 

Raphael's  voice  had  become  too  feeble  to  make  itself 
heard,  and  he  was  forced  to  submit  to  this  intolerable 
chatter.  Presently,  however,  his  irritation  drove  him 
out  of  bed  and  to  the  sill  of  his  door. 

"  Old  wretch  !"  he  said  to  Jonathas,  "  are  you  deter- 
mined to  kill  me  ?  " 


310 


The  Magic  Skin. 


The  woman  thought  she  saw  a  spectre,  and  fled. 

"I  forbid  you,"  continued  Raphael,  "  to  take  the 
slightest  interest  in  my  health." 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  marquis,"  said  the  old  man, 
wiping^his  eyes. 

"  And  you  will  do  well,  in  future,  not  to  come  here 
without  my  orders." 

Jonathas  meant  to  obey  ;  but  before  he  left  the  room 
he  cast  a  sorrowful  and  pitying  look  upon  his  master, 
—  a  look  in  which  Raphael  read  his  death-warrant. 
Brought  suddenly  back  to  a  true  sense  of  his  condi- 
tion, Valentin  sat  down  at  the  threshold  of  the  door, 
crossed  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  and  bowed  his  head. 
Jonathas,  alarmed,  came  up  to  him. 

"  Monsieur?  " 

u  Go  away  !  go  away  !  "  cried  the  sick  man. 

During  the  morning  of  the  following  day  Raphael, 
having  climbed  a  cliff,  was  sitting  in  a  mossy  ravine 
from  which  he  could  see  the  narrow  road  which  led  from 
the  Baths  to  the  entrance  of  the  valley.  There  he  per- 
ceived Jonathas,  again  talking  with  the  woman.  His 
fears  interpreted  the  despairing  gestures  and  the  omi- 
nous shaking  of  their  heads.  Seized  with  horror,  he  fled 
to  the  highest  summit  of  the  mountains  and  remained 
there  till  evening,  without  being  able  to  shake  off  the 
horrible  thoughts  roused  in  his  mind  by  the  pity  of 
which  he  now  felt  himself  the  object.  Suddenly  the 
woman  herself  rose  before  him,  like  a  shadow  among 
the  shadows  of  the  twilight  ;  with  poetic  fancy,  he  saw 
in  the  black  and  white  stripes  of  her  petticoat  a  vague 
resemblance  to  the  dried  ribs  of  a  spectre. 

"  The  dew  is  falling,  my  dear  monsieur,"  she  said. 


The  Magic  Shin. 


311 


ct  If  you  stay  here  you  won't  get  a  bit  better  than  a 
rotten  fruit.  You  must  come  in.  It  is  n't  healtlry  to 
breathe  the  night-damp,  especially  when  you  haven't 
eaten  anything  since  morning." 

"  In  God's  name,"  he  cried,  "I  order  you,  old 
witch,  to  let  me  live  as  I  please,  or  I  leave  your 
place.  It  is  enough  to  have  you  dig  my  grave  every 
morning  ;  at  least  you  shall  not  pry  into  it  at  night." 

4  6  Your  grave,  monsieur  Î  dig  your  grave  !  Why,  I 'd 
like  to  see  you  as  lively  as  the  grandfather  down  there, 
and  not  in  your  grave.  We  '11  all  get  there  soon  enough 
—  into  our  graves." 

"  Silence  !  "  said  Raphael. 

"  Take  my  arm,  monsieur." 

"  No." 

The  feeling  in  the  hearts  of  others  that  men  can  least 
bear  is  pity,  above  all  when  they  deserve  it.  Hatred  is 
a  tonic  ;  it  makes  a  man  live,  it  inspires  vengeance  ; 
but  pity  kills,  it  weakens  our  weakness.  It  is  contempt 
lurking  in  tenderness,  or  tenderness  that  is  half-insult- 
ing. Raphael  saw  the  pity  of  superiority  in  the  eyes  of 
the  hale  old  man  ;  in  those  of  the  child  the  pity  of 
curioshry  ;  in  the  woman  a  meddlesome  pity  ;  in  the 
husband  the  pity  of  self-interest  ;  but  under  whatever 
guise  it  appeared  to  him,  it  was  big  wifh  Death.  To  a 
poet  all  things  are  a  poem,  be  they  jo3<ous  or  terrible, 
according  to  the  images  they  imprint  upon  his  mind  ; 
his  soul  rejects  the  softer  tints  and  chooses  those  that 
are  vivid  and  clear-cut.  This  pity  induced  in  Raphael's 
mind  a  ghastly  poem  of  sadness  and  mourning.  In 
drawing  nigh  to  nature  he  had  not  considered  the 
frankness  of  natural  sentiments.    When  he  thought 


312 


The  Magic  Shin. 


himself  alone  under  a  tree  struggling  with  the  horrible 
cough  which  left  him  shattered  and  almost  lifeless,  he 
saw  the  bright  moist  eyes  of  the  little  boy,  perched  like 
a  sentry  on  a  grassy  mound,  and  watching  him  with 
that  childish  curiosity  in  which  there  is  quite  as  much 
of  raillery  and  scorn  as  of  interest  mingled  with  sheer 
indifference.  That  awful  sentence  of  the  Trappists, 
"  Brother,  thou  must  die  !  "  seemed  written  in  the  eyes 
of  all  those  among  whom  Raphael  now  lived.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  he  dreaded  most,  their  simple 
words  or  their  silence  ;  both  exasperated  him. 

One  morning  he  saw  two  men  dressed  in  black  wan- 
dering about  within  sight  of  his  retreat,  apparently 
observing  him  furtively  ;  then,  pretending  to  be  taking 
a  walk,  they  approached  and  asked  him  a  few  common- 
place questions,  to  which  he  replied  briefly.  He  recog- 
nized the  doctor  and  the  curate  belonging  to  the  Baths, 
sent  no  doubt  by  Jonathas,  by  agreement  with  his  land- 
lady, or  attracted,  he  thought,  by  the  scent  of  a  coming 
death.  A  vision  of  his  own  funeral  passed  before  his 
eyes  ;  he  heard  the  chanting  of  the  priests  ;  he  counted 
the  wax-tapers  ;  he  saw  through  crape  the  beauties  of 
surrounding  nature,  —  that  rich  nature  which  so  lately 
he  believed  to  have  given  him  life.  All  that  once 
seemed  to  promise  him  a  long  life  now  prophesied  his 
speedy  end.  He  could  bear  it  no  longer.  The  next 
morning  he  started  for  Paris,  followed  by  the  melan- 
choly, kindly,  and  pitying  wishes  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  valley. 

After  travelling  all  night  he  opened  his  eyes  in  one  of 
the  smiling  valleys  of  the  Bourbonnais,  whose  scenery 
whirled  around  him  and  past  him,  swept  onward  like 


The  Magic  Skin. 


313 


the  nebulous  images  of  a  dream.  Nature  spread  her- 
self before  his  eyes  with  cruel  coquetry.  Sometimes 
the  Allier  rolled  its  shining  liquid  ribbon  far  into  the 
distance  of  a  fertile  perspective  ;  then  the  hamlets 
modestly  nestling  in  a  gorge  of  yellow  cliffs  showed  the 
spires  of  their  steeples.  Here  and  there  the  windmills 
of  a  little  valley  broke  the  monotony  of  the  vineyards, 
and  on  all  sides  gay  chateaux,  villages  clinging  to  the 
hillsides,  roads  bordered  with  poplars  could  be  seen, 
while  the  Loire  with  its  glistening  waters  flowed  between 
golden  sands.  Charms  without  end  !  Nature,  living, 
vigorous  as  a  child,  o'erflowing  with  love  and  the  spring- 
time sap  of  the  month  of  June,  attracted  with  awful 
power  the  eyes  of  the  dying  man.  He  lowered  the 
blinds  of  the  carriage  window  and  tried  to  sleep. 

Toward  evening,  after  passing  Cosne,  he  was 
awakened  by  joyous  music,  and  found  himself  in  the 
middle  of  a  village  fête.  The  post-house  was  in  the 
square.  While  the  postilions  were  changing  horses  he 
watched  the  dances  of  the  happy  crowd.  The  young 
girls  decked  with  flowers  were  pretty  and  enticing,  the 
swains  animated,  the  old  folks  ruddy  and  jovial  with 
their  wine.  Children  were  romping  about  ;  old  women 
talked  and  laughed  ;  everything  had/ a  voice  ;  gayety 
enlivened  even  the  costumes  and  the  tables  set  out  in 
the  street.  The  village  square  with  its  church  pre- 
sented a  picture  of  simple  happiness  ;  the  roofs,  the 
windows,  even  the  doors  of  the  houses  wore  a  festal 
air.  Raphael,  like  all  dying  persons,  was  sensitive  to 
noise,  and  he  could  not  restrain  an  angry  exclamation, 
nor  the  wish  to  silence  those  violins,  to  put  an  end  to 
the  tumult  and  stop  the  gay  dances  of  the  annoying 


314 


The  Magic  Skin. 


festival.  He  got  wearily  back  into  his  carriage.  Glanc- 
ing presently  at  the  square  he  saw  the  peasantry  dis- 
persing ;  the  benches  were  deserted,  the  gayety  at  an 
end.  On  the  scaffolding  of  the  orchestra  a  blind  fiddler 
was  still  playing  a  squeaking  tune  on  his  violin.  That 
music  without  dancers,  that  solitary  old  man  with  a 
surly  face,  clothed  in  rags,  his  hair  matted,  half-hidden 
in  the  shadow  of  a  linden,  were  the  fantastic  images 
of  Raphael's  wish.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents  from  one 
of  those  electric  clouds  so  frequent  in  the  month  of 
June,  which  begin  and  end  with  equal  suddenness.  It 
was  so  natural  a  circumstance  that  Raphael,  after  no- 
ticing the  white  clouds  in  the  heavens  as  the}'  whirled 
away  in  the  gusts  of  wind,  never  even  looked  at  the 
Magic  Skin.  He  settled  himself  in  the  carriage  and 
was  soon  rolling  toward  Paris. 

On  the  morrow  he  was  once  more  at  home,  in  his 
own  home,  seated  by  the  chimney,  near  an  immense 
fire,  for  he  was  cold.  Jonathas  brought  him  letters; 
they  were  all  from  Pauline.  He  opened  the  first  with- 
out eagerness,  unfolding  it  as  though  it  were  a  summons 
sent  by  a  tax-gatherer.  He  read  the  first  sentence,  — 
"  Gone  !  is  it  flight,  my  Raphael?  What  !  can  no  one 
tell  me  where  y  ou  are  ?  If  I  do  not  know  it,  who  else 
can  ?  "  Without  reading  another  word  he  coldly  took 
up  all  the  letters  and  threw  them  into  the  fire,  watching 
with  dull  and  lifeless  eyes  the  pla}r  of  the  flames  as 
they  licked  up  the  perfumed  paper,  twisting  and  shriv- 
elling and  devouring  it.  Fragments  rolled  down  among 
the  ashes,  allowing  him  to  read  the  beginning  of  sen- 
tences and  words  and  thoughts  that  were  only  half 


The  Magic  Skin. 


315 


consumed  ;  he  even  took  pleasure  in  deciphering  them, 
as  though  it  were  some  mechanical  game. 

"  Sitting  at  your  door  —  waiting  —  capricious  —  I 
obey  —  Rivals  —  I,  no  !  —  your  own  Pauline  —  love  — 
no  more  ?  —  Though  you  leave  me  you  would  never 
abandon  me  —  Love  eternal  —  To  die  !  —  " 

The  words  caused  him  a  species  of  remorse  ;  he 
seized  the  tongs  and  caught  a  fragment  of  a  letter 
from  the  flames. 

"I  murmured,"  she  wrote,  u  but  I  have  not  com- 
plained, my  Raphael.  If  you  have  left  me,  it  is,  no 
doubt,  to  spare,  me  the  burden  of  some  grief.  It  may 
be  that  you  will  some  day  kill  me,  but  you  are  too  good 
to  torture  me.  Never  leave  me  thus  again.  I  can 
face  all  trials  if  you  are  with  me.  The  grief  that  you 
may  cause  me  will  not  be  grief.  I  have  more  love  in 
my  heart  than  I  have  ever  shown. you.  I  can  bear  all 
things  except  to  weep  in  solitude  away  from  you,  and 
not  to  know  if  you  —  " 

Raphael  put  the  blackened  fragment  on  the  chimney- 
piece  ;  then  he  flung  it  back  into  the  fire.  That  paper 
was  too  vivid  an  image  of  his  love  and  of  his  fatal 
life. 

"  Jonathas,"  he  said,  "  go  anjl  fetch  Monsieur 
Bianchon." 

Horace  came,  and  found  Raphael  in  bed. 

"My  friend,  can  3-ou  give  me  some  gentle  opiate 
which  shall  keep  me  always  in  a  state  of  somnolence 
and  yet  do  my  health  no  harm  ?  " 

"  Nothing  is  easier,"  said  the  young  physician  ;  "  but 
you  must  get  up  some  hours  in  the  day  to  eat  your 
meals." 


316 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  Some  hours!"  said  Raphael,  interrupting  him. 
"  No,  no  ;  only  one  hour  at  most." 

"  What  are  you  aiming  at?  "  asked  Bianchon. 

"  Sleep  is  still  life,  you  know,"  answered  the  pa- 
tient. "Let  no  one  in,"  he  added,  speaking  to  Jona- 
thas  while  the  doctor  wrote  a  prescription,  "not  even 
your  mistress." 

"  Well,  Monsieur  Horace,  what  hope  is  there?  "  asked 
the  old  servant  the  moment  they  were  on  the  portico. 

"  He  ma}'  live  some  time  ;  he  may  die  to-night.  The 
chances  of  life  and  death  are  very  nearly  balanced  in 
him.  I  can't  understand  it  !  "  replied  the  young  phj'si- 
cian,  in  a  tone  of  discouragement.  "  He  needs  amuse- 
ment.   You  must  distract  his  mind." 

"  Distract  him  !  monsieur,  you  don't  know  him. 
Wiry,  the  other  day  he  killed  a  man  without  a  word  ! 
Nothing,  I  tell  3'ou,  distracts  him  !" 

Raphael  remained  for  several  da}'s  in  this  condition 
of  induced  sleep.  Thanks  to  the  material  power  of 
opium  over  our  immaterial  being,  this  man  of  high  and 
active  imagination  lowered  himself  to  the  level  of  those 
slothful  animals  who  crouch  in  the  depths  of  a  forest 
and  take  the  form  of  vegetable  decay  to  seize  their 
prey  without  seeking  it.  He  denied  himself  even  the 
light  of  heaven,  —  the  windows  were  darkened.  To- 
wards eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  he  rose  from  his  bed 
to  satisfy  his  hunger,  but  without  any  clear  conscious- 
ness of  existence,  and  then  returned  to  it.  The  cold 
and  barren  hours  brought  him  nothing  more  than  con- 
fused images,  vague  apparitions,  the  flicker  of  dim 
lights  on  a  black  background.  He  was  buried  in  utter 
silence,  in  a  blind  negation  of  motion  and  intellect. 


The  Magie  Skin. 


317 


One  evening  he  waked  much  later  than  usual  and 
found  his  dinner  not  ready.    He  rang  for  Jonathas. 

"Leave  my  service/'  he  said.  "I  have  made  }Tou 
rich  ;  you  can  be  happy  in  your  old  age,  but  you  shall 
no  longer  trifle  with  my  life.  Wretched  man  !  I  am 
hungry.  Where  is  my  dinner?  am  I  to  wish  for  it? 
Answer." 

Jonathas  gave  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  took  a  wax- 
taper,  whose  light  glimmered  in  the  deep  obscurity  of  the 
vast  apartments,  and  led  his  master,  now  a  machine  in 
his  hands,  to  the  door  of  the  great  gallery  which  he 
abruptly  threw  open.  Raphael,  bathed  in  a  sudden 
flood  of  light,  stood  still,  amazed  and  dazzled  by  what 
he  saw.  The  lustres  were  filled  with  candles,  choicest 
flowers,  artistically  arranged,  adorned  a  table  that 
sparkled  with  silver  and  gold  and  glass  and  porcelain  ; 
a  regal  repast  fit  to  tempt  the  jaded  appetites  of  a 
palace  was  there.  He  saw  his  friends  and  companions, 
and  with  them  he  saw  beautiful  women,  elegantly 
dressed,  their  necks  and  shoulders  bare,  their  eyes 
brilliant,  their  heads  bedecked  with  flowers,  wearing  the 
costumes  of  distant  lands  and  other  times.  One  wore 
the  graceful  jacket  of  an  Irish  girl  ;  another  the  alluring 
"basquina"  of  the  Andalusians.  Di^na  of  the  chase, 
half-clothed,  and  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vallière,  modest 
yet  amorous,  were  present.  All  eyes  sparkled  with 
pleasure  and  delight.  When  Raphael's  dead  face  looked 
in  upon  them  from  the  open  door  acclamations  burst 
forth,  glowing  and  vehement  as  the  sudden  blaze  of  the 
unexpected  feast.  For  an  instant  the  voices,  the  per- 
fumes, the  lights,  and  the  penetrating  beauty  of  the 
women  seized  upon  his  senses  and  awakened  him. 


318 


The  Magic  Skin. 


Delightful  music  came  in  a  torrent  of  harmony  from 
an  adjoining  room,  and  completed  the  strange  vision. 
Eaphael  felt  the  pressure  of  a  soft  hand,  a  woman's 
hand,  whose  white  and  fragrant  arms  were  raised  to 
clasp  him,  — the  hand  of  Aquilina.  He  comprehended 
then  that  the  scene  was  not  vague  and  fantastic  like 
the  fugitive  visions  of  his  distorted  dreams  ;  uttering  a 
dreadful  cry,  he  shut  the  door  violently  and  struck  his 
old  servant  a  blow  on  the  face. 

"Monster,  have  you  sworn  my  death?"  he  cried. 
Then,  still  throbbing  with  the  sense  of  the  danger  he 
had  escaped,  he  gathered  up  his  strength,  and  fled  to  his 
room,  drank  a  deep  draught  of  sleep  and  went  to  bed. 

4  4  The  devil!"  cried  old  Jonathas,  recovering  him- 
self. 4  É  Monsieur  Bianchon  certainly  told  me  to  dis- 
tract him." 

It  was  nearly  midnight.  By  one  of  those  physiolog- 
ical caprices  which  are  the  wonder  and  the  despair  of 
science,  Raphael  became  resplendent  in  beauty  during 
sleep.  A  bright  color  glowed  on  his  pallid  cheek.  His 
noble  brow,  pure  as  a  }'Oung  girl's,  revealed  his  genius. 
Life  was  in  flower,  as  it  were,  upon  that  tranquil, 
peaceful  face.  He  was  like  a  child  sleeping  under  the 
care  of  a  mother.  His  sleep  was  a  good  sleep  ;  a  pure 
and  equable  breath  came  from  the  coral  lips  ;  he  smiled, 
entranced  no  doubt  by  some  dream  of  a  noble  life. 
Was  he  an  aged  man,  were  his  grandchildren  playing 
at  his  knee  and  wishing  him  still  longer  life  ?  From  his 
rustic  bench  in  the  sunshine,  beneath  the  foliage,  did 
he  see,  like  the  prophet  from  the  mountain-top,  in  the 
far  and  blessed  distance,  the  promised  land? 

1  i  I  have  found  thee  !  " 


The  Magic  Skin. 


319 


The  words,  uttered  in  a  silvery  voice,  dispersed  the 
nebulous  figures  of  his  dream.  By  the  light  of  a  lamp 
he  saw  Pauline  sitting  on  the  bed,  his  Pauline,  — yet  a 
Pauline  embellished  by  absence  and  by  grief.  Raphael 
remained  speechless  as  he  looked  at  the  fair  face,  white 
as  the  petals  of  a  water-lily,  and  now  shaded  by  the 
falling  of  her  long,  black  hair.  Tears  had  left  their 
traces  on  her  cheeks  and  suffused  her  eyes,  ready  to 
fall  at  a  word.  Robed  in  white,  with  bowed  head  and 
scarcely  touching  the  bed  on  which  she  rested,  she  was 
like  an  angel  descending  from  heaven,  a  spirit,  an 
apparition,  which  a  breath  might  drive  away. 

"  Ah!  I  have  forgotten  all;  I  do  not  blame  thee," 
she  cried,  as  Raphael  opened  his  eyes.  "I  have  no 
voice  except  to  tell  thee  that  I  am  thine.  Yes,  my 
heart  is  love,  love  only.  Ah  !  angel  of  my  life,  how 
beautiful  thou  art  ;  never  so  beautiful  as  now.  Thine 
eyes  devour  me  —  But  I  have  guessed  all  ;  it  was  in 
search  of  health  —  " 

"  Away,  away  !  go,  leave  me,"  said  Raphael  at  last, 
in  a  muffled  voice.  "  Go,  I  say.  If  you  stay  there  I 
die.    Would  you  see  me  die?" 

"Die!"  she  repeated.  "Canst  thou  die  without 
me  ?  Die  ?  but  thou  art  young.  Die  ?  but  I  love  thee. 
Die  ?  "  she  added  in  a  guttural  voice,  taking  his  hands 
with  a  frenzied  movement. 

"  Cold  !  "  she  said  ;  "  is  it  an  illusion?  " 

Raphael  drew  from  beneath  his  pillow  the  fatal  skin, 
now  shrunken  to  the  dimensions  of  a  vinca-leaf.  He 
showed  it  to  her. 

"  Pauline,  dear  image  of  my  beautiful  life,"  he  said, 
"  we  must  bid  each  other  farewell." 


320 


The  Magic  Skin. 


"  Farewell?  "  she  repeated  in  tones  of  amazement. 

"  Yes,  this  talisman  accomplishes  my  wishes,  and  rep- 
resents my  life.  See  how  little  remains  of  it.  If  you 
look  at  me  again,  if  I  long  for  happiness  with  thee,  I  die." 

The  young  girl  thought  him  mad  ;  she  took  the  talis- 
man and  carried  it  to  the  lamp.  By  the  flickering  light 
which  fell  upon  Raphael  and  also  on  the  talisman,  she 
examined  attentively  the  face  of  the  one,  and  the  last 
morsel  of  the  Magic  Skin.  As  she  stood  there,  beautiful 
with  terror  and  with  love,  Raphael  was  no  longer  mas- 
ter of  his  thought  :  recollections  of  tender  scenes,  of  the 
passion  of  his  lost  joys,  triumphed  in  the  soul  that  he 
had  put  to  sleep,  and  roused  it  like  a  smouldering  fire. 

u  Pauline,  Pauline,  come  to  me  !  " 

A  terrible  cry  burst  from  her  throat,  her  eyes  dilated, 
her  eyebrows,  dragged  by  some  untold  anguish,  drew 
apart  with  horror  ;  she  read  in  Raphael's  ey es  a  pas- 
sionate desire,  once  her  glory,  but  as  it  grew  the  Skin 
contracted  in  her  hand  and  to  her  sight.  Without  an 
instant's  reflection  she  fled  into  the  adjoining  room  and 
locked  the  door. 

u  Pauline,  Pauline  !  "  cried  the  dying  man,  rushing 
after  her.  4  '  I  love  thee  !  I  adore  thee  !  I  will  curse 
thee  if  thou  dost  not  open  !  I  choose  to  die  with  thee  !  " 

With  unnatural  strength,  the  last  effort  of  vitality,  he 
burst  open  the  door  and  saw  her  writhing  on  an  otto- 
man. Pauline,  seeking  vainly  for  death,  was  endeavoring 
to  strangle  herself  with  her  shawl  :  — 

"  If  I  die,  he  lives  !  "  she  cried,  struggling  to  tighten 
the  knot. 

Her  hair  hung  loose,  her  shoulders  were  bare,  her 
clothing  in  disorder;  in  this  wild  struggle  for  death, 


The  Magic  Skin. 


with  tearful  eyes  and  a  flushed  face  and  writhing  in 
the  anguish  of  her  horrible  despair  she  met  the  eyes 
of  Raphael  and  augmented  his  delirium  ;  he  darted 
towards  her  with  the  lightness  of  a  bird  of  prey,  tore 
the  shawl  away,  and  tried  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 
The  dying  creature  sought  for  words  to  utter  the  desire 
that  possessed  him,  but  no  sounds  came  except  the 
strangling  death-rattle  in  his  throat,  —  each  breath  he 
drew,  more  hollow  than  the  last,  seeming  to  come  from 
his  very  entrails.  At  the  last  moment,  furious  at  his 
own  weakness,  he  bit  her  in  the  breast.  Jonathas,  ter- 
rified by  the  cries  he  heard,  rushed  in,  and  struggled  to 
tear  his  mistress  from  the  dead  body  to  which  she  clung 
in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

6 1  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  demanded.  '  '  He  is 
mine.    I  have  killed  him.    Did  I  not  predict  it?" 


EPILOGUE. 

"  And  what  became  of  Pauline?  " 

"  Pauline  ?  Ah  !  Do  you  sometimes  sit  of  a  pleasant 
winter  evening  beside  your  family  hearth,  given  over  to 
delightful  memories  of  youth  and  lové  as  you  watch  the 
lines  of  fire  among  the  logs  ?  Here  the  glowing  embers 
seem  the  red  squares  of  a  checker-board,  there  they 
shimmer  softly  like  velvet  ;  the  blue  flames  run,  and 
dart  up,  and  play  upon  the  surface  of  the  live  coal.  A 
painter  comes  ;  he  takes  that  flame  ;  by  some  art, 
known  only  to  himself,  he  draws  amid  those  lambent 
tints  of  violet  or  crimson,  a  spiritual  figure  of  unspeak- 

21 


322 


The  Magic  Skin. 


able  delicacy,  a  fleeting  vision  that  no  chance  or  circum- 
stance recalls  ;  it  is  a  woman,  whose  hair  floats  in  the 
breeze,  whose  profile  breathes  forth  blissful  passion,  — 
fire  within  fire  !  she  smiles,  she  dies  away,  you  will  see 
her  no  more.  Farewell,  flower  of  the  Flame  ;  farewell, 
essence  incomplete  as  yet,  and  not  expected  ;  come  too 
early  or  too  late  to  be  the  diamond  of  our  lives  — 99 
"But  Pauline?" 

u  Ah,  you  do  not  see?  I  will  try  again.  Make 
way  !  make  way  !  She  comes,  queen  of  illusions,  the 
woman  who  passes  like  a  kiss,  the  woman  vivid  as  the 
lightning,  falling  like  the  lightning  in  fire  from  heaven  ; 
the  being  uncreated,  all  spirit,  all  love.  She  is  clothed 
with  a  body  of  flame,  or,  is  it  that  for  her,  and  for  an 
instant,  flame  is  living?  The  lines  of  her  form  are  of 
such  purity  that  you  know  she  comes  from  heaven. 
Does  she  not  shine  as  the  Shining  Ones?  do  you  not 
hear  the  airy  beat  of  her  wings  ?  Buoyant  as  a  bird, 
she  alights  beside  you;  her  solemn  eyes  entrance  you, 
her  soft  yet  compelling  breath  attracts  your  lips  by  magic 
force  ;  she  flies,  and  draws  you  with  her  ;  you  touch 
the  earth  no  longer.  You  try  to  la}'  your  quivering  hand, 
your  fascinated  hand,  upon  that  snowy  body,  to  touch 
'  the  golden  hair,  to  kiss  those  sparkling  e3res.  A  vapor 
intoxicates  you,  enchanting  music  charms  you.  You 
tremble  in  every  nerve,  you  are  all  desire,  all  suffering. 
Oh,  happiness  without  a  name  !  you  have  touched  that 
woman's  lips  — but  lo  !  a  sharp  pain  wakens  }tou.  Ha  ! 
you  have  struck  your  head  against  the  angle  of  the  bed- 
post, you  kissed  the  brown  mahogany,  the  cold  gilding, 
a  bit  of  iron,  or  that  brass  Cupid  —  " 
"  But,  monsieur,  Pauline?" 


The  Magic  Skin. 


323 


"What,  again?  Listen.  On  a  lovely  morning  a 
young  man  leading  by  the  hand  a  pretty  woman  em- 
barked at  Tours  on  the  '  Ville  d'Angers.'  Standing 
thus  united,  they  watched  and  admired,  above  the 
broad  waters  of  the  Loire,  a  white  form  issuing  from 
the  bosom  of  the  mist,  like  an  offspring  of  the  water  and 
the  sun,  or  some  effluence  of  the.  clouds  and  the  air. 
Undine  or  sylph,  the  fluid  creature  floated  in  the  atmos- 
phere, like  a  wrord  sought  in  vain  as  it  flits  through  the 
memory  and  will  not  let  itself  be  caught  ;  she  glided 
among  the  islands,  and  waved  her  head  above  the  pop- 
lars ;  then,  rising  to  colossal  height,  each  fold  of  her 
drapery  became  resplendent  as  the  halo  drawn  by  the 
sun  around  her  face.  She  hovered  thus  above  the  ham- 
lets and  about  the  hills,  seeming  to  forbid  the  little 
steamer  to  pass  before  the  chateau  D'Ussy.  You 
might  have  thought  her  the  phantom  of  the  Lady  of  the 
Loire  seeking  to  protect  her  country  from  invasion." 

"Well,  well;  I  think  I  understand  Pauline;  but 
Fedora,  what  of  her?" 

"  Oh,  Fedora?  you  meet  her  every  day.  Last 
night  she  was  at  the  Bouffons  ;  to-night  she  will  be 
at  the  opera.  She  is  everywhere  ;  call  her,  if  you  like, 
Society." 


University  Press,  Cambridge  :  John  Wilson  and  Son. 


[From  the  New  York  Tribune  of  October  13,  1885.] 

BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 

PERE  GORIOT.    Honoré  de  Balzac.  Translated, 

Boston  :  Roberts  Brothers. 

In  publishing  a  translation  of  Balzac's  "  Père  Goriot/'  the  Boston  firm 
undertaking  the  enterprise  seems  to  feel  that  there  is  some  doubt  as  to 
the  success  of  the  experiment,  which  includes,  if  the  public  approve  the 
initial  essay,  the  presentation  in  English  of  several  of  the  great  French- 
man's other  works.  Perhaps  the  slow  recognition  of  Balzac's  genius  by 
the  American  and  English  public  may  be  capable  of  intelligible  explana- 
tion. The  magnitude  of  his  work  is  alone  sufficient  to  repel  such  as  only 
look  to  French  fiction  for  ephemeral  sensation,  while  the  seriousness  of 
his  purpose  might  intimidate  those  who  imagined  that  he  was  didactic  and 
therefore  dull.  But  the  time  should  now  be  ripe  for  the  introduction  of 
English-speaking  people  to  an  author  who  by  right  of  genius  stands  alone 
among  his  contemporaries ',  and  whose  marvellous  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, subtle  analytic  power,  encyclopœdic  learning,  and  brilliant  descriptive 
talent  justify  the  daring  comparison  of  his  productive  force  with  that  of 
Shakespeare. 

To  understand  Balzac  thoroughly,  indeed,  he  must  be  read  in  the* 
original  and  as  a  whole.  Selected  pieces  from  the  "  Comédie  Humaine  " 
may  convey  a  sufficiently  clear  apprehension,  for  the  public,  of  his  powers, 
but  a  careful  study  of  that  wonderful  scheme  throughout  is  indispensable 
to  a  real  knowledge  of  his  aim  and  scope.  The  "  Comédie  Humaine  "  is 
the  most  remarkable  work  of  its  kind  extant.  It  is  not  mere  fiction.  It 
is,  as  Balzac  intended  it  to  be,  a  faithful  history  of  the  France  of  his 
time  ;  a  history  so  faithful  and  so  detailed  that  were  all  other  contem- 
porary literature  destroyed,  posterity  could  from  this  work  reconstruct  an 
exact  and  finished  picture  of  the  age.  In  his  general  preface  (which  the 
American  publishers  have  judiciously  prefixed  to  their  translation  of 
"  Père  Goriot")  the  author  gives  some  account  of  his  plan.  His  aim  was 
to  do  for  society  what  Buffon  had  done  for  the  animal  kingdom.  Since, 
aowever,  men  and  women  are  complex  creatures,  and  since  their  acts  and 


2 


BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 


sufferings  are  caused  mainly  by  the  influence  of  passions  whose  treatment 
demands  a  profound  study  of  psychology,  it  is  evident  that  the  task  of  the 
novelist,  or,  as  he  might  be  better  named,  the  social  historian,  must  be 
much  more  difficult  than  that  of  the  naturalist. 

Balzac,  however,  supported  by  that  confidence  in  its  own  powers  which 
so  often  characterizes  genius,  grappled  boldly  with  this  arduous  undertak- 
ing. He  was  to  write  the  history  of  his  time,  nothing  extenuating,  and 
setting  down  nought  in  malice,  painting  in  their  due  proportions  the  vices 
and  the  virtues  of  the  period,  showing  the  springs  that  moved  society,  the 
passions  that  furnished  motives  to  action,  the  meannesses,  the  magnanimi- 
ties, the  rapacity,  the  self-sacrifice,  the  sensuality,  the  purity,  the  piety, 
the  heathenism  of  his  fellow  men  and  women.  His  equipment  for  the 
work  was  splendid.  His  erudition  was  both  extensive  and  curious.  He 
knew  not  only  common  but  recondite  things.  In  science  he  had  out- 
stripped his  generation.  In  the  "  Comédie  Humaine  99  may  be  recognized 
the  practical  embodiment  of  evolutionary  philosophy.  The  influence  of 
the  environment  upon  character  and  conduct  is  always  insisted  upon  by 
him.  And  because  he  never  loses  sight  of  tb*.  natural  processes  through 
which  character  is  moulded  and  changed,  his  characters  possess  a  peculiar 
reality  and  vitality.  To  him  they  were  indeed  living,  and  the  rare  faculty 
by  which,  in  the  alembic  of  his  mind,  all  the  complex  influences  and 
agencies  concerned  went  to  form,  complete,  and  vivify  these  creations,  has 
endowed  them  with  so  strong  an  individuality  that  they  live  and  move 
still  for  the  reader.  Nothing  that  belonged  to  Balzac's  time  escaped  him, 
and  he  explored  the  obscurer  lines  of  research  as  conscientiously  as  those 
more  open  and  clear.  Thus  it  is  that  there  is  to  be  found  in  his  works 
references  to  what  are  now  thought  the  supernatural  theories  of  the  day; 
and  he  has  sounded  the  depths  of  mysticism  with  the  same  devotion 
shown  in  his  pursuit  of  physical  science. 

Critics  have  regretted  that  he  had  no  high  moral  aim;  but  this  regret 
seems  to  imply  misapprehension  of  his  purpose  not  less  than  error  as  to 
his  achievements.  His  aim  was  to  describe  life  as  it  was  being  lived 
under  his  eyes.  That  his  tendencies  were  not  debasing  is  shown  by  the 
striking  contrast  between  his  work  and  that  of  Zola.  In  the  latter's  writ 
ings  the  ugly,  vile,  and  horrible  is  so  elaborated,  exaggerated,  and  kept  in 
the  foreground  that  it  colors  and  characterizes  everything.  In  Balzac 
there  is  not  less  realism,  and  nothing  more  graphic  than  his  descriptions 
of  the  seamy  side  of  life  has  ever  been  written.  But  there  is  no  taint  of 
lubricity  and  no  suggestion  of  liking  for  the  scenes  so  depicted.  A 
sombre  fire  runs  through  all  the  pictures  of  low  and  vicious  life,  which, 
while  enhancing  the  skill  of  the  artist,  moves  to  pity  or  indignation  be- 
cause of  the  destinies  so  sadly  fixed.    Perhaps  no  better  example  of  his 


BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 


3 


style  than  "  Père  Goriot  v  could  be  selected.  Père  Goriot  is  the  Lear  oi 
modern  society;  and  though  the  passions  which  move  the  characters  are 
for  the  most  part  sordid  and  base,  the  pathos  and  power  of  the  story  are 
so  great,  that  even  in  translation  the  genius  of  the  master  is  unmistakable. 
There  is  nothing  in  fiction  more  pitiful  than  the  figure  of  old  Goriot 
and  the  skill  of  the  creator,  which  sets  down  all  the  defects  and  limitations 
of  the  hero,  thereby  accentuates  his  devotion  and  the  ignoble  tragedy  of 
his  fate. 

Balzac,  however,  never  adopted  the  modern  vice  known  as  the  "star 
system  "  in  dramatic  management.  There  were  no  "  sticks  "  in  his  com- 
pany. Every  character  is  complete,  intelligible,  consistent,  progressive 
Neither  does  he  pad.  From  beginning  to  end,  save  as  regards  his  de- 
scriptions of  things  and  places,  every  sentence  has  direct  relation  to  the 
working  out  of  the  plot.  And  as  to  those  long  and  minute  descriptions, 
which  have  vexed  some  critics,  they  were  written  with  the  distinct  and 
avowed  purpose  of  preserving  faithful  likenesses  which  should  be  of 
use  to  the  historian  of  the  future.  Nor  are  they  tiresome,  but  often  seem 
to  sharpen  the  realization  of  the  story,  and  in  all  cases  increase  the  gen- 
eral impression  of  fidelity  to  facts.  The  style  of  Balzac  is  very  remarkable 
for  its  power.  It  is  nervotis,  full  of  suppressed  fire,  suggesting  a  brain  so 
prolific  of  thoughts  that  the  ut?nost  care  had  to  be  exercised  to  prroent  them 
from  overcrowding  one  a7iother.  The  concentrated  force  of  expression  fre- 
quently reminds  one  of  Shakespeare,  and  bursts  of  marvellous  impassioned 
eloquence —  not  of  the  frothy  kind,  but  presenting  truths  deep  as  the  centre  — 
at  intervals  flash  out,  adding  to  the  sense  of  repressed  volcanic  power  which 
pervades  these  works. 

The  defects  of  Balzac  are  those  of  his  time  and  country.  It  is  curious 
that  while  he  himself  finds  no  really  lofty  female  characters  in  English 
fiction,  even  belittling  the  heroines  of  Scott,  and  advancing  the  strange 
theory  that  the  neglect  by  Protestant  peoples  of  the  worship  of  the  Virgin 
has  lowered  their  standard  of  womanhood,  —  his  own  most  ambitious 
types  of  piety  and  purity  in  woman  exhibit  le^s  of  his  characteristic  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature  than  any  of  his  other  characters.  This  type,  in  fact, 
he  appears  to  have  described  from  pure  imagination,  with  the  result  that 
his  creations  of  this  class  are  cold,  unapproachable,  abnormal,  bloodless 
beings,  whose  goodness  does  not  impress  us  as  meritorious,  because  they 
are  essentially  incapable  of  wrong-doing.  In  a  word,  he  has  filled  up  the 
vacant  niche  with  conventional  angels,  only  removing  their  wings.  As  to 
the  low  plane  of  the  ambitions  which  move  so  many  of  his  characters,  no 
doubt  he  would  have  said  that  he  merely  took  the  world  as  he  found  it; 
that  these  were  the  prevailing  ambitions,  and  that  he  could  not  make 
society  better  than  it  was.    And  doubtless  there  is  much  force  in  this, 


4 


BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 


though  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  France  of  Balzac's  time  afforded 
almost  as  abundant  material  for  satire  as  the  Rome  of  Juvenal. 

Taking  him  at  his  own  estimate,  however,  and  accepting  his  view  of  the 
duties  of  the  novelist  under  the  given  conditions, —  a  view,  be  it  said,  which 
is  always  open  to  doubt  and  dispute,  —  it  is  impossible  not  to  admire  the 
depth  of  his  insight  and  the  marvellous  scope  and  comprehensiveness  of 
his  genius.  The  enterprise  he  undertook  was  gigantic,  yet  what  he  ac- 
complished was  so  monumental  a  work  as  to  prove  the  justness  of  his 
self-appreciation.  Some  day,  perhaps,  a  complete  translation  of  the 
'*  Comédie  Humaine  "  will  be  undertaken.  Possibly  the  success  of 
Messrs.  Roberts'  venture  may  induce  them  to  extend  their  enterprise. 
"  César  Birotteau,"  and  one  or  two  more  of  Balzac's  stories,  have  been 
put  into  English  already,  though  inadequately.  There  ought  to  be,  in  the 
United  States  and  England,  at  the  present  time  enough  lovers  of  good  liter- 
ature to  make  such  an  undertaking  as  a  complete  translation  of  this  author 
remunerative.  When  we  consider  what  masses  of  trash  pour  from  mod- 
ern presses,  and  what  capital  is  employed  in  reproductions  of  so-called 
classics  which  have  become  rare  and  obscure  because  they  deserved  obliv- 
ion, it  seems  reasonable  to  expect  that  Balzac  would  find  purchasers  if 
issued  in  the  form  suggested. 

The  translation  of  "  Père  Goriot  "  is  very  good,  and  Balzac  is  not  the 
easiest  author  to  translate.  The  publishers  cannot  do  better  than  to  intrust 
the  succeeding  volumes  to  the  same  capable  hands,  and  it  would  be  only  justice 
to  the  translator  to  put  his  or  her  name  on  the  titlepage.  For  it  is  a  merito- 
rious deed  to  have  turned  into  excellent,  nervous  English  the  prose  of  this 
çreat  Frenchman,  whose  fire  and  fervor,  clear  sight  aud  powerful  description, 
when  contrasted  with  the  average  novel  of  the  day,  shine  forth  with  redoubled 
splendor,  and  whose  brilliant  genius  in  the  analysis  of  human  character  casts 
altogether  into  the  shade  the  amateurish  essays  at  psychologic  fiction  which 
are  gravely  spoken  of  in  these  degenerate  times  as  the  promising  productions 
if  a  new  and  higher  school  of  literary  art. 


PÈRE  GORIOT.  A  Novel.  By  Honoré  de  Balzac. 
i2mo.  349  pages.  Prefaced  with  Balzac's  own  account  of  his 
plan  in  writing  the  "  Comédie  Humaine,"  xix  pages.  Half- 
bound  in  morocco,  French  style.    Price  $1.50. 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  CÉSAR 
BIROTTEATJ. 


"  '  César  Birotteau,'  which  is  the  latest  addition  to  the  series  of 
new  translations  of  Balzac's  novels,  is  one  of  the  acknowledged  master- 
pieces of  modern  fiction.  It  is  strong  in  the  best  elements  of  Balzac's 
strength,  and  free  from  the  objectionable  atmosphere  which  is  often  in- 
troduced into  his  other  stories.  No  other  novel  better  illustrates  the 
marvellous  accuracy  and  realism  which  Balzac  attained  in  the  reproduc- 
tion of  personal  idiosyncrasies,  manners,  habits,  peculiarities  of  dress, 
and  material  surroundings.  César  Birotteau  is  quite  as  real  as  the  man 
we  are  meeting  every  day  ;  a  great  deal  more  real  than  many  of  the  his- 
torical personages  of  his  own  epoch.  He  is  a  typical  representative  of 
the  French  bourgeois  of  the  period  of  the  Restoration.  Coming  up  to 
Paris  from  the  Provinces  in  his  youth,  we  see  the  stamp  of  the  middle 
class  upon  his  square  figure,  his  awkward  gesture,  his  independence,  his 
narrowness,  his  impenetrability  to  ideas.  After  the  wise  and  prudent 
Constance  becomes  his  wife  and  co-worker  we  follow  rapidly  the  stages 
by  which  the  two  attain  a  remarkable  commercial  success.  We  see  the 
honest,  genuine,  middle-class  home  life  of  Paris,  with  its  limited; 
ideas,  its  sweet  and  natural  affections,  its  adhesion  to  class  traits  and 
sentiments.  Then  comes  the  dream  of  ambition,  the  land  speculation, 
the  inevitable  sharper,  quite  as  quick-witted  and  villanous  in  France 
as  anywhere  else,  the  collapse  of  the  enterprise,  the  agonies  of  bank- 
ruptcy, and  the  slow  but  sure  return  to  solvency  and  honor.  No 
other  book  gives  us  quite  so  clear  an  impression,  quite  so  vivid  a 
picture,  of  the  life  of  the  French  shopkeeper,  and  of  the  sentiment 
of  honor  in  all  commercial  transactions'  which  is  a  matter  of  life 
and  death  with  him.  Balzac  portrays,  with  a  marvellous  fidelity,  the 
agonies  of  soul  through  which  a  man  passes  who  loves  his  credit 
as  he  loves  his  life,  and  to  whom  failure  is  practically  death.  There 
is  a  noble  motive  underlying  the  story;  and  almost  before  we  are 
aware  of  it,  we  find  this  narrow-minded  bourgeois  transformed  into  a 
veritable  hero  under  our  very  eyes,  and  at  the  end  he  leaves  behind  him 
an  impression  akin  to  that  of  martyrdom." —  Christian  Union. 

'For  the  third  of  their  series  of  Balzac's  works  in  English,  Messrs. 
Roberts  Brothers  have  fixed  upon  'The  Rise  and  Fall  of  César 


2 


CESAR  BIROTTEAU. 


Birotteau.,  In  his  pictures  of  bourgeois  life  Balzac  is  as  accurate,  as 
striking,  and  as  sympathetic  as  when  his  scenes  are  courts  and  palaces, 
and  his  actors  and  actresses  dukes  and  duchesses.  All  his  types  stand 
out  with  the  clearness  of  portraits.  César  himself,  his  wife  Constance, 
his  daughter  Césarine,  Roquin  the  notary,  Vauquelin  the  great  chem- 
ist, the  Claparone  Cruchots,  Du  Tillets,  and  the  rest,  are  finely  cut 
individualities  that  bear  the  mark  of  nature  and  genius.  Of  plot  there  is 
little  worth  speaking  of.  The  book  might  as  truly  be  named  the  fall  and 
rise,  as  the  rise  and  fall,  of  César  Birotteau  ;  for,  tragic  as  its  close  is,  the 
image  of  the  perfumer  that  it  leaves  on  the  reader's  mind  is  that  of  a 
man  infinitely  superior  to  the  successful  trader  of  our  first  acquaintance, 
with  his  petty  ostentation  and  paltry  ambitions.  The  stroke  of  misfor- 
tune which  tested  him  —  a  stroke  of  which  Balzac  well  knew  the  force 
from  frequent  sad  experiences  —  and  his  pretended  friends  and  professed 
admirers,  transfigured,  while  it  killed  him;  and  in  the  death  of  the  honest 
merchant  and  righteous  man  we  forgive  and  forget  the  foibles  which  had 
formerly  hidden  his  true  character  from  the  world.  Of  the  rich  humor 
that  lurks,  like  precious  ore,  even  in  the  most  serious  seeming  of  Balzac's 
narratives,  there  is  an  ample  store  in  '  César  Birotteau,'  and  everywhere 
we  have  evidence  of  that  scientific  fidelity  which  he  brought  to  bear  on 
every  subject  that  he  touched.  Even  in  discussing  the  hîiile  cêphalique 
he  is  equally  correct  from  the  chemical  and  the  commercial  standpoint. 
Few  writers  have  combined  such  breadth  of  view  with  such  exactness  of 
detail.  In  both  respects, '  César  Birotteau  '  is  a  masterpiece."  — Montreal 
Gazette. 

"  No  single  work  of  Balzac  affords  so  clearly  the  clew  to  the  secret  of 
his  greatness,  and  but  few  manifest  so  fully  the  height  and  the  range  of  his 
genius,  as  does  '  César  Birotteau.'  Given  the  materials  that  are  here  uti- 
lized, a  newspaper-man  would  write  some  clever  articles  on  finance,  a  legal 
reporter  would  compile  a  valuable  treatise  on  bankruptcy,  and  a  contribu- 
tor to  the  magazines  would  pen  a  pathetic  if  not  striking  story.  But 
Balzac  with  the  magic  of  his  power  transmutes  these  crude  data  into  a 
poem.  Seldom  is  he  so  stern  and  unfaltering  in  his  fidelity  to  the  truths 
of  nature  as  in  this  work  ;  and  yet,  despite  of  this,  nay,  rather  of  this  fi- 
delity, because  of  eagerness  to  grasp  all  the  truth,  he  sees  beyond  the  mere 
details  of  life,  the  Ideal  hovering  over  and  permeating  the  Real.  The 
bare  facts  of  existence  have  but  poor  significance  and  scant  value  if  they 
be  not  seen  as  symbols  of  the  higher  and  better  things  which  they  typify 
Birotteau's  failure,  because  of  his  parvenu  ambition,  his  credulous  spec- 
ulative spirit,  and  the  malicious  enmity  of  Du  Tillet,  is  depicted  with  a 


CESAR  BIROTTEA  U. 


3 


masterly  hand.  The  conditions  leading  to  it  are  identical  in  character, 
though  differing  perhaps  in  minor  details,  with  those  that  obtained  in 
these  United  States  but  a  few  years  back,  and  still  to  some  degree 
render  our  commercial  classes  no  very  enviable  or  desirable  personages. 
But  wherein  Balzac  manifests  his  unapproachable  superiority  over  the 
Zolas  and  Daudets  of  our  day  is  in  the  noble  picture  which  he  gives  us  of 
Birotteau  and  his  family  straining  every  nerve  to  pay  all  that  is  due  every 
creditor,  even  after  the  settlement  in  the  bankruptcy  proceedings  has 
been  effected.  True,  as  the  mole-like  among  the  Realists  would  assert, 
such  examples  of  heroism  are  extremely  rare.  But  just  because  they  are, 
it  is  the  duty  of  the  poet  to  embody  them  in  impressive  works  of  art,  so 
that  humanity  may  be  elevated  to  a  plane  where  such  nobility  will  not 
be  rare.    Such  is  the  gospel  of  true  Realism."—  The  American  Hebrew, 

"  Keeping  in  mind  the  plan  upon  which  Balzac  worked,  —  to  describe 
all  sorts  of  people,  to  depict  life  in  all  its  varieties,  to  make,  in  fact,  a 
social  catalogue,  constituting  as  complete  and  systematic  a  work  in  the 
natural  history  of  men  and  women  as  might  be  made  by  the  observer  of 
ants  or  elephants,  birds  or  fishes,  —  we  have  at  least  the  comfort  of  study- 
ing different  Parisian  species,  and  of  finding  that,  contrary  to  what  might 
be  —  must  be  ?  —  presumed  by  the  reader  of  *  Père  Goriot/  there  are 
some  of  the  decent  sort  in  the  French  capital.  This  narrative  of  a 
bourgeois  perfumer  who  adhered  to  the  royalist  cause,  sixty  years  ago, 
gathered  some  money,  was  decorated  with  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,  began  to  speculate,  grew  extravagant,  went  up  like  the  well- 
known  rocket  and  came  down  like  its  stick,  —  this  is  a  particularly  clean 
story  and  study  of  life.  The  family  of  Birotteau  is  a  charming  group. 
His  faithful,  sensible  wife,  and  gentle,  pure-minded  daughter  are  so 
different  from  the  female  creatures  depicted  in  the  two  preceding  books 
of  this  issue  that  we  can  hardly  understand  why,  since  they  must  have 
inhabited  Paris  at  nearly  the  same  time  with  the  characters  in  '  Père 
Goriot/  we  got  in  that  work  not  a  single  glimpse  of  them,  and  were 
forced  to  conclude  there  were  no  such  species. 

"But  poor  Birotteau  himself  is  the  best  figure,  because  he  ends  honor- 
ably and  cleanly.  His  death,  after  his  recovery  from  insolvency  and  his 
reinstatement  in  credit,  is  a  pathetic  but  true  stroke  of  the  novelist's  art. 
And  what  is  notable  about  it  is  that  Balzac,  in  relating  it,  shows  his 
appreciation  of  the  moral  dignity  of  Birotteau's  recovery  and  exit  ;  he 
does  not  handle  these  incidents  coarsely  or  cynically,  but  as  sympa- 
thetically as  one  could  ask.  So,  too,  he  sketches  the  characters  of 
Popinot  and  Pillerault  with  a  firm  but  gentle  hand,  and  makes  them 


4 


CÉSAR  BIROTTEAU. 


both  win  our  esteem.  On  the  whole,  it  is  a  pleasing  study  of  French 
life,  and  is  made  the  more  attractive  by  its  dashes  of  cheerful  humor." 
—  The  American  {Philadelphia). 

"  The  Balzac  novel  translated  this  time  is  *  César  Birotteau.'  It  relates 
the  career  of  a  bottrgeois  Frenchman  in  mercantile  life,  and  is  one  of 
the  most  powerful  and  realistic  novels  ever  written  in  any  tongue,  with- 
out a  shade  of  French  immorality,  and  with  an  occasional  dash  of  humor 
to  enlighten  those  sombre  pages  that  we  expect  in  Balzac.  The  book  is 
a  striking  contrast  to  its  predecessor  in  the  series,  and  exhibits  effectively 
the  Shakspearian  range  of  the  pen  to  which  we  owe  it.  This  series  is  a 
gratifying  success,  and  there  is  reason  for  congratulation  that  it  is  likely 
to  bring  the  complete  works  of  Balzac  to  American  book-shelves  in  so 
very  adequate  a  translation."  —  "  Templeton"  in  Hartford  Courant. 

"Balzac's  'Comédie  Humaine'  is  the  only  undertaking  of  its  kind  ever 
attempted.  His  intention  was  to  give  to  posterity  a  true  picture  of 
French  civilization  of  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Anthony 
Trollope  imitated  him,  only  on  a  much  smaller  scale.  Trollope's  characters 
were  mainly  those  who  frequented  the  drawing-rooms  of  polite  society 
and  were  never  known  to  do  anything  bad,  while  Balzac's  were  from 
every  walk  of  life,  and  true  representatives  of  the  '  Comedy  of  Human 
Life.'  Although  he  dealt  with  life  as  he  really  found  it,  yet  his  works 
have  none  of  the  vileness  of  the  French  novels  of  the  present  day. 
It  is  true  he  gave  the  darker  side  of  life  and  painted  it  in  vivid  colors, 
yet  in  such  a  way  that,  instead  of  exciting  the  passions,  it  rather  moves 
to  pity.  Every  one  of  his  characters  have  their  part  to  play,  and.through- 
out  his  entire  works  there  is  not  a  dummy.  His  style  is  undoubtedly  the 
most  powerful  of  any  novelist  who  ever  lived,  and  his  understanding  of 
human  nature  equalled  Shakspeare's. 

"The  publishers  of  the  present  translations  (Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers, 
Boston)  consider  the  first  three  books  they  have  issued  as  an  experiment 
to  be  continued  only  by  the  demand  that  may  arise.  '  The  Duchesse  de 
Langeais,'  '  Père  Goriot,'  and  '  César  Birotteau 9  have  already  been 
published,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  other  books  will  speedily 
follow,  for  the  translations  have  been  made  without  losing  any  of  the 
power  of  the  original."  —  Times. 

One  handsome  i2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "Père  Goriot  "  and  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais."  Bound  in  half  morocco.  French  style. 
Price,  $1.50. 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


From  The  Art  Interchange,  a  Household  Jour- 
nal, of  February  13,  1886. 


THE  DUCHESSE  DE  LANGEAIS, 

WITH 

An  Episode  under  the  Terror,  The  Illustrious 
Gaudissart,  A  Passion  in  the  Desert,  and 
A  Hidden  Masterpiece. 

By  HONORÉ  DE  BALZAC. 

Since  the  days  when  Thackeray  and  Dickens  were  issuing  in  numbers 
those  novels  which  have  delighted  so  many  readers,  or  George  Eliot's  pub- 
lishers were  able  to  announce  a  new  novel  from  her  pen,  there  has  been  no 
series  of  novels  given  to  the  public  so  notable  and  so  well  worthy  of  wide 
attention  on  the  part  of  adult  readers  as  this  translation  of  Balzac  from  the 
press  of  Roberts  Brothers.  If  it  be  objected,  as  it  perhaps  will  be,  that  there 
is  a  flavor  of  immorality  in  Balzac,  and  that  his  works  are  not  well  adapted 
to  general  reading,  it  can  be  shown,  we  think,  at  least  so  far  as  the  charge 
of  immorality  is  concerned,  that  the  objection  is  a  superficial  one  ;  and  that 
while  there  is  much  in  the  times  and  society  which  form  the  ground-work 
of  Balzac's  marvellous  stories  that  is  improper  and  fortunately  counter  to 
our  civilization,  still,  Balzac's  tone  concerning  these  very  things  is  a  healthy 
one,  and  his  belief  in  purity  and  goodness,  his  faith  in  the  possibilities  of 
humanity,  is  too  clear  to  admit  of  a  question.  He  gives  us  wonderful  pic- 
tures of  the  world  he  lived  in.  It  was  not  altogether  a  good  world.  As  it 
was  he  portrays  it.  Its  virtues  he  praises  and  fits  vices  he  condemns,  not 
by  a  page  of  mere  moralizing,  but  by  events  and  action,  which,  swaying  the 
ethics  of  society  with  apparent  uncertainty  hither  and  thither,  yet  have  an 
upward  tread,  even  as  they  do  in  our  world  of  to-day.  "  The  Duchesse  de 
Langeais  "  is  the  novel  of  this  volume.  It  is  from  the  Scènes  de  la  Vie 
Parisienne  of  the  Comédie  Humaine.  The  temptation  and  struggle  of  the 
Duchess  is  one  which  could  hardly,  in  our  day,  present  itself  to  a  pure- 
minded  woman.  In  that  day  and  time  it  could,  and  did;  in  spite  of  her 
wild  abandonment  to  the  lover  who  spurned  her,  the  reader  feels  that 
Madame  de  Langeais  was  a  noble-hearted  woman,  purer  than  those  who 


counselled  her  a  concealed  enjoyment  of  her  passion,  nobler  and  better  than 
the  society  which  made  her  what  she  was.  With  great  power  and  pathos  is 
her  story  told.  It  is  a  very  powerful  scene  when  her  lover  meets  her  in  the 
convent,  and  very  dramatic  is  her  tortured  cry  to  the  Mother  Superior: 
"  This  man  is  my  lover  !  "  How  strong  and  pitiful  the  end,  and  the  sad 
commitment  to  the  waves  of  what  was  a  woman  and  now  is  nothing  !  The 
volume  also  contains  four  short  stories.  "  An  Episode  under  the  Terror," 
from  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Politique,  is  a  story  already  familiar  from  previous 
translation,  and  which  has  drifted  around  in  English  as  much  perhaps  as 
any  of  Balzac's  shorter  stories.  "  The  Illustrious  Gaudissart  "  is  from 
Scènes  de  la  Vie  de  Province,  an  admirable  example  of  Balzac's  humor. 
Gaudissart  is  a  commercial  traveller,  —  a  drummer,  in  familiar  parlance.  He 
might  be  a  drummer  of  to-day.  If  he  were,  he  could  easily  find  employ- 
ment with  a  high-class  house.  The  shrewdness  and  impudence  of  the  class 
has  not  varied  much  since  Balzac's  time.  Gaudissart  adds  to  his  line  a 
children's  magazine  and  the  agency  of  a  Life  Insurance  Company.  He  is 
advised  by  the  humorist  of  a  provincial  town  to  try  his  powers  of  persua- 
sion on  a  man  who  turns  out  to  be  a  harmless,  but  decided  lunatic.  The 
scene  between  the  two  is  humorous  in  the  extreme.  When  Gaudissart  calls 
the  insuring  one's  life  for  a  large  sum  "  the  discounting  of  future  genius," 
he  adds  a  persuasive  phrase  to  the  repertoire  of  the  life-insurance  agent. 
11 A  Passion  in  the  Desert  "  is  from  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Militaire,  and  is  as 
singular  a  tale  as  might  be  imagined  from  the  affection  of  a  man  and  a 
tiger.  The  last  of  the  four  is  "  The  Hidden  Masterpiece,"  from  Études 
Philosophiques.  Here,  to  the  readers  of  this  edition,  Balzac  is  seen  in  a 
new  vein.  Here  is  something  of  the  strange,  weird  touch  of  Hawthorne, 
something  of  unreality,  and  the  lingering  vision  of  a  possible  moral.  The 
translation  could  hardly  be  in  better  hands.  The  English  is  delightfully 
clear  and  nervous.  Whoever  reads  these  books  will  know  Balzac  very  well, 
and  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  they  will  like  him  very  much. 


One  handsome  1 2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "Père  Goriot 9 
and  "  César  Birotteau."  Bound  in  half  morocco,  French 
style»    Price  $i. so. 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston 


BALZAC  IN  ENGLISH. 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS. 


"  It  is  quite  possible  that  many  French  students  may  be  somewhat  puzzled  to 
encounter  that  story  of  Balzac's  which  they  have  always  known  under  the  title  of 
'Un  Menage  de  Garçon,'  in  the  strange  and  unfamiliar  appellation  'The  Two 
Brothers.'  The  explanation  is  simple  enough,  and  it  is  interesting  as  illustrating 
one  of  Balzac's  peculiarities.  A  number  of  his  books  underwent  many  changes 
before  they  crystallized  permanently  in  the  edition  definitive.  Some  of  them  were 
begun  in  a  newspaper  or  review,  carried  along  some  distance  in  that  way,  then 
dropped,  to  appear  presently  enlarged,  altered,  'grown,'  as  is  said  of  children, 
'  out  of  knowledge.'  The  '  History  of  Balzac's  Works,'  by  Charles  de  Lovenjoul, 
gives  all  the  details  of  these  bewildering  metamorphoses.  The  first  title  of  the 
present  story  was  that  which  the  American  translator  has  selected,  namely,  '  Les 
deux  Frères.'  The  first  part  of  it  appeared  in  La  Presse  in  1841  with  this  desig- 
nation, and  in  1843  it  was  published  in  two  volumes  without  change  of  title.  The 
second  part  (now  incorporated  with  the  first)  appeared  in  La  Pressera  1842,  under 
the  title  '  Un  Menage  de  Garçon  en  Province,'  and  figured  as  the  continuation  of 
'  The  Two  Brothers.'  In  1843  the  two  parts  were  brought  together,  and  the 
whole  published  as  '  Un  Menage  de  Garçon  en  Province.'  Balzac,  however,  was 
not  yet  satisfied.  Having  announced  yet  another  title,  namely,  '  Le  Bonhomme 
Rouget,'  he  abandoned  that,  cancelled  both  the  former  ones,  and  called  the  tale, 
in  the  definitive  edition  of  his  works,  4  La  Rabouilleuse/  after  Flore  Brazier,  one 
of  the  characters  in  it.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Miss  Wormeley  has  chosen 
the  most  apposite  of  all  these  titles.  The  real  subject  is  the  career  of  the  two 
brothers,  Philippe  and  Joseph  Bridau." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  of  Boston,  have  added  to  the  excellent  translations 
they  have  already  published  of  several  of  Balzac's  most  famous  novels  a  translation 
of  'The  Two  Brothers,'  which  forms  a  sequence  in  4  Scenes  from  Provincial  Life.' 
As  with  the  other  novels  that  have  preceded  it,  nothing  but  the  highest  praise  can 
be  awarded  the  work  of  the  translator.  It  gives  to  the  reader  of  English  a  remark- 
able rendering  of  Balzac's  nervous,  idiomatic  French  ;  and  it  presents  the  novel- 
reader  a  novel  that  must  challenge  his  comparisons  with  the  popular  novels  of  the 
times.  One  cannot  read  far  in  Balzac's  pages  without  feeling  refreshed  by  contact 
with  a  vigorous  intellect.  In  this  story  he  attempted  to  display  two  opposite  types 
of  character  in  brothers,  which  had  been  inherited  by  them  from  different  ances- 
tors. In  order  to  do  this  effectively  he  introduces  in  a  few  opening^  pages  these 
ancestors,  before  coming  to  the  real  action  of  the  story.  .  .  .  There  is  no  plot,  no 
intrigue,  no  aim  whatever  except  to  depict  the  characters  of  Joseph,  Philippe,  the 
mother,  and  the  immediate  friends  about  them.  All  this  is  done,  however,  with 
such  vivid  reality  that  it  fascinates  the_ attention.  It  is  like  watching  an  artist  de- 
velop with  telling  colors  a  great  breathing,  living  picture.  It  is,  in  ics  way,  a  study 
of  evolution.  '  Perhaps  I  have  never  drawn  a  picture,'  said  Balzac,  in  reference 
to  the  book,  '  that  shows  more  plainly  how  essential  to  European  society  is  the 
indissoluble  marriage  bond,  how  fatal  the  results  of  feminine  weakness,  how  great 
the  dangers  arising  from  selfish  interests  when  indulged  without  restraint.'  There 
are  many  Philippes  in  the  world  outside  of  France  ;  the  shrewd,  selfish,  swagger- 
ing Phihppes  who  march  through  life  rough-shod,  regardless  of  kindred,  friends, 
or  foes.  Here  is  the  man  painted  to  the  life  for  all  time,  and  any  country.  Here 
also  is  the  woman,  with  all  her  simplicity  and  weakness,  who  always  and  ever  fails 
to  gauge  rightly  this  sort  of  man  ;  who  is  doomed  to  be  his  slave  and  victim. 
Balzac  met  them  in  his  Parisian  world  forty  years  ago,  and  here  they  take  their 
places  in  his  comedy  of  human  life.  While  there  are  such  strong  portraitures  in 
literature  as  these  novels,  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  so  many  weak,  flimsy, 
pretentious  ones  find  any  readers  at  all.  Let  us  have  Balzac  in  excellent  transla- 
tion by  all  means,  —  all  that  remarkable  series  that  are  still  quite  as  good  as  new 
to  the  great  majority  of  the  English-speaking  people."  —  Brooklyn  Citizen. 


One  handsome  \21no  volume,  uniform  with  11  Père  Goriot,"  "  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  " 'César  Birotteau,"  u Eugénie  Grandet^  "Cousin 
Pons,"  and  "  The  Country  Doctor."  Half  morocco.  French  style. 
Price i  $1,50. 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


BALZAC    IN  ENGLISH. 


EUGENIE  GRANDET. 

A  GREAT  NOVEI,. 

"  Honoré  de  Balzac  wrote  many  books  to  each  of  which  this  title  may  justly 
be  applied.  We  apply  it  in  the  present  instance  to  1  Eugenie  Grandet,'  one  ol 
his  very  greatest  works,  —  one  which,  in  the  opinion  of  a  large  number  of  persons, 
divides  with  '  Le  Père  Goriot  '  the  honor  of  being  his  masterpiece.  Englishmen 
are  prone  to  hold  that  in  English  fiction  there  is  no  such  beautiful  and  complete 
embodiment  of  a  good  woman  as  Fielding's  Amelia  ;  Frenchmen,  we  should  fancy, 
must  ascribe  a  similar  position  to  Eugénie  Grandet.  The  book  of  which  she  is  the 
central  figure,  the  Rembrandt-contrast  to  the  ignoble  spirits  by  whom  she  is  sur- 
rounded, has  been  beyond  a  doubt  one  of  the  most  widely  read  of  French  novels  ; 
and  now  that  it  has  been  rendered  into  excellent  English,  and  presented  in  a 
highly  attractive  form,  it  will  undoubtedly  pass  into  the  mental  experience  of  a 
multitude  who  would  otherwise  have  lacked  more  than  a  hearsay  knowledge  of 
its  beauty.  The  translation  of  the  novels  so  far  published  by  the  Messrs.  Roberts 
Brothers  deserves  more  than  the  mere  word  that  can  be  given  to  it  here.  Although 
French  is  a  language  much  easier  to  read  than  German,  it  is  a  far  more  difficult 
task  to  turn  French  prose  into  idiomatic  English  prose  than  to  do  the  same  by 
German,  and  we  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  any  translation  of  French 
into  English  which  is  so  near  being  uniformly  idiomatic  as  these  versions  of 
Balzac  now  under  consideration."  —  Boston  Post. 

"  Not  to  know  Balzac,  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  declared  to  be  an 
ignorance  'that  will  soon  be  excuseless,  and  we  hope  rare.'  Not  to  know  Balzac 
is  certainly  to  lose  one  of  the  highest  intellectual  pleasures  and  to  shut  out  one  of 
the  profoundest  educational  forces  of  literature  in  this  century.  Balzac's  work  is 
throughout  full  of  power."  —  Brooklyn  Times. 

"  This  volume  comes  to  us  as  the  fourth  in  the  series  of  translations  of  Balzac's 
novels,  published  by  this  well-known  Boston  house.  His  sketches  of  character 
are  nowhere  more  strong  and  masterly  than  in  this  book,  where  he  depicts  the 
miser,  Grandet,  in  all  the  repulsiveness  which  belongs  to  a  narrow,  grasping,  and 
unscrupulous  nature,  in  contrast  with  his  patient,  long-suffering,  repressed,  but 
faithful  and  tender  wife.  Their  only  child,  Eugénie,  is  the  heroine  of  the  story; 
and  her  strong,  simple,  and  loving  nature,  which  leads  her  to  sacrifice  her  future 
for  a  brilliant  but  unworthy  cousin,  who  wins  her  heart,  and  then  forgets  her  in 
his  search  for  a  more  ambitious  alliance,  furnishes  a  theme  where  Balzac's  literary 
skill  and  keen  analysis  of  motives  are  seen  at  their  best.  We  regret  that  the 
name  of  the  translator  has  not  been  made  public,  for  his  work  is  well  done,  and 
deserves  special  commendation  in  these  days,  when  so  many  poor  translations  of 
foreign  works  are  offered  to  the  public."  —  Portland  Press. 

The  London  Athencsum  says  of  the  translation  of  Balzac  which  Roberts 
Brothers  are  publishing,  that  it  is  "very  much  above  the  average  of  English 
translation  of  French."   

One  handsome  \2mo  volume,  uniform  with  "  Père  Goriot,"  "  Duchesse  de 
Langeais,"  and  "  César  Birotteau."  Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style. 
Price,  $1.50. 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

Boston» 


BALZAC    IN  ENGLISH. 


THE  ALKAHEST; 

Or,  The  House  of  Claès. 


Among  the  novels  of  Honoré  de  Balzac  "  La  Recherche  de  l'Absolu  "  has 
always  counted  one  of  the  masterpieces.  The  terrible  dominion  of  a  fixed  idea 
was  never  shown  with  more  tremendous  force  than  is  depicted  in  the  absorption  of 
all  the  powers,  the  mind,  and  body  of  Balthazar  Claës  by  the  desire  to  discover 
the  Absolute,  the  "  Alkahest."  The  lovely  old  mansion  at  Duai,  its  sumptuous 
furniture,  its  priceless  pictures,  its  rare  bric-à-brac,  the  pyramid  of  costly  tulips 
that  glowed  in  the  garden,  are  painted  with  a  touch  rich  and  vivid,  which  shows 
Balzac  at  his  best.  This  great  novelist  was  always  minute  and  exhaustive  in  his 
descriptions;  but  in  this  story  the  material  in  which  he  worked  was  of  a  sort  to 
arouse  his  enthusiasm,  and  he  evidently  revels  in  the  attractive  setting  which  its 
events  demand.    The  tale  itself  is  penetrating  and  powerful.  —  Boston  Courier. 

The  "Alkahest  "  is  a  strong  story,  and  all  through  it  is  to  be  felt  that  sub- 
current  of  vitalizing  energy  which  in  so  many  of  Balzac's  books  seems  to  çropel 
the  principal  characters  as  in  a  special  atmosphere,  hurrying  them  with  a  kind  of 
fiery  yet  restrained  impatience  toward  the  doom  assigned  them.  .  .  .  The  scien- 
tific and  mystical  features  of  the  story  are  cleverly  handled.  Balzac  made  deep 
inquests  before  writing  his  philosophical  studies,  as  he  called  them,  and  he  was 
always  rather  ahead  than  abreast  of  the  thoughts  of  his  time.  The  central  prob- 
lem dealt  with  here  is,  of  course,  as  complete  a  mystery  to-day  as  when  the 
"  Recherche  de  l'Absolu  "  was  written.  .  .  .  Miss  Wormeley  has  made  a  charao 
teristically  excellent  translation  of  a  book  which  presents  many  unusual  difficulties 
and  abstruse  points.  It  is  rarely  possible  to  assert  with  any  truth  that  an  English 
version  of  a  French  book  may  be  read  by  the  public  with  nearly  as  much  profit 
and  apprehension  as  the  original  ;  but  it  is  the  simple  fact  in  this  instance,  and  it 
is  certainly  remarkable  enough  to  deserve  emphasis.  — New  York  Tribune. 

He  who  would  know  the  art  of  novel-writing  may  go  to  Balzac  and  find  an  art 
that  is  natural,  simple,  and  beautiful  in  its  exercise,  and  is  directed  to  both  thought 
and  feeling  in  behalf  of  humanity,  and  that  realizes  something  good  and  enduring. 
He  may  look  without  much  trouble  at  "  The  Alkahest  ;  or,  The  House  of  Claes," 
one  of  the  most  illustrative  of  the  author's  method  and  aim,  and  excelling  in 
philosophical  analysis  and  in  philosophical  value. 

In  this  work  Balzac  has  opposed  the  heart  and  intellect  in  a  contest  amid  the 
conditions  of  social  life,  and  sought  to  reveal  their  comparative  nature  and  influ- 
ence, siding,  although  a  remarkable  example  himself  of  intellectual  development 
and  force,  in  favor  of  the  heart,  —  that  Flemish  heart  which  is  ideal  of  all  that  is 
powerful  for  good  and  happiness  in  domestic  life,  and  determines  Flemish  charac- 
ter so  strongly  that  the  qualities  of  that  character  impress  themselves  fixedly  in 
Flemish  painting  and  architecture.  —  Sunday  Globe,  Boston. 

One  more  scene  in  Balzac's  wonderful  "  Comedy  of  Human  Life."  It  is  "  The 
Alkahest;  or,  The  House  of  Claè'Sj"  the  greatest  of  ^he  "philosophical  studies." 
It  tells  of  the  mad,  persistent,  vain  endeavors  of  Balthazar,  a  scientist,  to  dis- 
cover the  Absolute.  Through  years  he  squanders  his  estate  in  fruitless  experi- 
ments. It  is  a  drama  that  slowly  chills  the  blood.  Then  comes  the  finale. 
"  Suddenly  the  dying  man  raised  himself  by  his  wrists,  and  cast  on  his  frightened 
children  a  look  which  struck  like  lightning  ;  the  hairs  that  fringed  the  bald  head 
stirred,  the  wrinkles  quivered,  the  features  were  illumined  with  spiritual  fires,  a 
breath  passed  across  that  face  and  rendered  it  sublime.  He  raised  a  hand 
clenched  in  fury,  and  uttered  with  a  piercing  cry  the  famous  word  of  Archimedes, 
*  Eureka  !  '  —  I  have  found."  It  is  the  way  Balthazar  found  the  Absolute.  — 
Philadelphia  Press. 


One  handsome  1 2mo  volume,  uniform  with  " Père  Goriot"  u  The 
Duchesse  de  Langeais"  "  César  Birotteau,"  "  Eugénie  Grandet? 
"  Cousin  Pons"  "  The  Country  Doctor"  and  "  The  Two  Brothers? 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style.    Price,  $1.50. 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


BALZAC    IN  ENGLISH. 

COUSIN  PONS. 


"It  is  late  in  the  day  to  speak  of  the  genius  of  Balzac,  but  it  is  worth  while  to 
commend  the  reader  to  the  admirable  translation  of  a  number  of  his  works 
issued  by  an  American  firm  of  publishers.  The  work  of  Miss  Wormeley,  whose 
name  does  not  appear  upon  the  titlepage,  but  who  is  said  to  be  the  translator,  is 
deserving  of  the  highest  praise.  Balzac's  intensely  idiomatic  French,  as  well  as 
his  occasional  treatment  of  recondite  subjects,  and  his  frequent  elucidation  of 
complicated  business  transactions,  render  the  translation  of  his  works  difficult;  but 
the  present  translator  has  turned  the  original  into  clear  and  fluent  English,  read- 
ing not  at  all  like  a  translation,  yet  preserving  Balzac's  vigorous  and  characteristic 
style.  It  is  not  only  the  best  translation  of  Balzac  which  we  have,  —  which  would 
not  be  high  praise,  since  English  versions  cf  his  novels  have  hitherto  been  few  and 
fragmentary,  —  but  one  of  the  most  excellent  translations  of  any  French  author 
which  we  have  met.  The  publishers  have  laid  the  American  readers  under 
obligation  both  by  undertaking  the  enterprise  of  presenting  Balzac  in  an  English 
dress,  and  by  their  selection  of  a  translator  ;  and  it  is  most  desirable  that  they 
should  complete  the  work  so  well  begun  by  putting  within  the  reach  of  English- 
speaking  readers  the  remainder  of  that  marvellous  body  of  fiction,  The  Comédie 
Humaine." —  The  Church  Review. 

"  '  Cousin  Pons  '  is  the  latest  translation  in  the  Balzac  series  now  being  issued 
by  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston.  It  is  a  strong  story  of  friendship  and  of  greed.  To 
all  intents  and  purposes  the  narrative  indicates  a  complete  and  perfect  triumph  of 
vice  over  virtue  :  but  vice  is  painted  in  such  hideous  colors,  and  virtue  is  shown  in 
such  effulgent  beauty,  as  to  make  the  moral  well-nigh  awe-inspiring.  Balzac  does 
not  stay  the  natural  course  of  events.  He  permits  each  character  to  work  out  its 
own  results,  and  then  makes  the  impression  desired  by  comparative  methods.  In 
this,  as  in  all  his  works,  the  wonderful  writer  manifests  a  familiarity  with  the 
ethics  of  life  which  has  gained  for  him  the  eternal  remembrance  and  gratitude 
of  all  readers  ;  and  it  is  fair  to  presume  that  the  Balzac  now  being  translated  and 
published  by  the  Roberts  Brothers  will  revive  his  name  and  bring  again  to  his 
feet  the  world  of  English-speaking  people."  —  Springfield  Republican. 

u  The  last  translation  from  Balzac  brought  out  by  Roberts  Brothers  in  their 
new  and  beautiful  edition  is  one  of  the  famous  Frenchman's  most  original  stories. 
It  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  and  original  novels  ever  written,  and 
only  the  mind  of  a  genius  could  have  conceived  such  a  peculiar  plot.  The  heroine 
of  the  novel  —  for  whom  the  principal  character  sacrifices  his  comfort,  his  pleasure, 
and  indeed  his  life  ;  for  whom  many  other  characters  in  the  book  sacrifice  their 
honor  ;  and  around  whom  all  the  excitement  and  interest  centres  —  is,  strangely 
enough,  not  a  woman  ;  and  yet  this  heroine  calls  forth  the  most  ardent  and 
passionate  devotion  a  man  is  capable  of,  and  her  influence  is  elevating  and  not 
degrading.  The  manner  in  which  a  mania  of  any  kind  can  absorb  a  man,  body 
and  soul,  is  wonderfully  brought  out  in  'Cousin  Pons;'  for  the  heroine  of  the 
book  is  a  collection  of  curios. 

"  Those  who  have  formed  a  hasty  judgment  of  Balzac  from  reading  the  1  Duchesse 
de  Langeais'  would  do  well  to  read  'Cousin  Pons.'  Balzac  sees  and  depicts 
virtue  as  perfectly  as  vice,  and  it  is  his  faculty  of  describing  beauty  as  well  as 
ugliness  which  has  made  him  famous.  The  delicacy  of  perception  which  enabled 
him  to  perceive  and  describe  every  shade  of  feeling  in  4  Cousin  Pons  '  and  to 
appreciate  the  nobility  of  Schmucke's  character  is  the  chief  characteristic  of 
genius.  The  reader  must  read  all  the  '  Scenes  from  Parisian  Life  '  to  have  any 
fall  conception  of  Balzac's  greatness.  His  breadth  of  vision,  his  dramatic  power, 
his  searching  analysis  of  the  most  transient  emotions,  and  his  quick  perceptions  of 
beauty,  are  all  evident  in  '  Cousin  Pons.'  It  is  an  interesting,  exciting  novel,  a 
perfect  piece  of  literary  execution,  and  a  story  which  is,  if  sad,  neither  coarse  nor 
immoral.''  —  Boston  Transcript. 


One  handsome  i:mo  volume,  uniform  with  "Père  Goriot/' 
"  Duchesse  de  Langeais,"  u  César  Birotteau,"  "  Eugénie  Grandet." 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style.    Price,  Si. 50. 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


BALZAC   IN  ENGLISH. 


THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR. 


"  That  exceedingly  rare  thing,  —  a  French  novel  possessing  all  the  virile  nervous- 
ness of  its  kind  and  yet  wholesome  to  the  core,  elevating  in  its  tendency,  and  free 
even  from  the  slightest  moral  taint  or  uncleanness,  —  we  have  it  in  Balzac's  '  Coun- 
try Doctor.'  It  is,  if  we  mistake  not,  the  fifth  of  the  series  of  Balzac  translations 
which  the  well-known  Boston  firm  had  the  enterprise  and  the  good  fortune  to 
publish.  For  though  somewhat  daring  at  first  as  an  experiment,  there  is  now 
no  doubt  that  as  the  publishers  sensibly  enriched  English  literature  by  those  ex- 
quisite translations  of  an  author  all  too  long  neglected  and  overlooked  by  English- 
speaking  people,  so  the  venture  has  also  proved  a  profitable  one  for  them  in  a 
monetary  sense.  And  here  it  must  be  said  that  if  regret  at  anything  in  this  book 
has  to  be  expressed  it  is  because  of  the  continued  omission  of  the  name  of  the 
translator.  In  that  respect  the  book  is  almost  a  marvel.  This  translation  can  no 
more  be  compared  to  the  usual  slapdash  work  glutting  the  market,  made  by  per- 
sons lacking  almost  every  requisite  necessary  for  the  task,  than  Balzac  himself  can 
be  compared  to  the  salacious,  hollow-brained  scamps  who  m  English  minds  figure 
exclusively  as  French  novelists.  The  translation  is,  in  fact,  exquisite.  .  .  . 
The  person  who  did  the  translation  combines  these  two  rare  qualifications,  —  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  French  and  a  perfect  mastery  over  English." — New  York 
Graphic. 

tl  The  many-sidedness  of  Balzac's  genius  is  strikingly  exhibited  in  {  Le  Medicin 
de  Campagne.'  It  demonstrates  also  the  injustice  of  much  of  the  criticism  di- 
rected against  this  great  writer  by  Sainte-Beuve  and  others  who  have  followed 
his  lines  of  interpretation.  It  is  significant  that  this  book  was  one  of  Balzac's 
favorites.  It  is  significant  because  the  work  is  characterized  by  none  of  the 
qualities  which  it  has  been  customary  to  attribute  to  his  fiction,  and  which  do,  in 
fact,  appear  in  much  of  it.  The  '  Country  Doctor  '  is  not  a  novel  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  term.  It  is  rather  a  prose  poem,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  capti- 
vating, and  ennobling  in  any  literature.  Balzac  himself  said  of  it  that  it  was  a  pic- 
ture of  '  the  Gospel  in  action,'  and  the  definition  is  keen  and  succinct.  It  is  indeed 
a  story  of  the  noblest  and  most  practical  philanthropy,  so  enriched  by  philosophy,  so 
broadened  by  profound  economic  analysis,  so  full  of  deep  suggestion  and  piercing 
criticism  of  social  problems  that  it  might  constitute  a  statesman's  text-book,  and 
convey  useful  ideas  to  the  most  experienced  administrators.  .  .  .  The  devotion  of 
the  country  doctor  to  the  community  whose  interests  he  had  taken  in  charge  is  in- 
deed touching  and  beautiful,  but  such  instances  are  not  wholly  unfamiliar.  Whaf 
gives  this  story  its  charm  and  distinction  is  the  art  of  the  writer  in  developing 
before  us,  by  the  simplest  and  least  obtrusive  means,  one  of  those  really  majestic 
characters  whose  lives  men  follow  with  never-failing  interest,  and  whose  biogra- 
phies constitute  the  most  fascinating  literature,  since  they  illustrate  and  stimulate 
the  higher  potentialities  latent  in  every  human  breast.  ...  It  only  remains  to  be 
said  that  Miss  Wormeley  has  translated  the  book  excellently,  and  has  preserved 
as  nearly  as  possible  every  shade  of  the  author's  meaning.  The  enterprise  of  the 
publishers  in  undertaking  to  English  Balzac  is  certainly  commendable,  but  it 
could  not  have  succeeded  as  it  has  but  for  the  good  fortune  which  sent  them  so 
capable  and  sympathetic  a  translator."  — New  York  Tribune. 


One  handsome  \2mo  volume,  uitiform  with  "  Père  Goriot" 
"  Duchesse  de  Langeais"  "  César  Birotteau"  "  Eugénie  Grandet" 
and  "  Cousin  Pons"  Bound  in  half  morocco,  French  style. 
Price,  $1.50. 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


famous  îfêomen  £erte£. 

MARGARET  OF  ANGOULÊME, 

QUEEN   OF  NAVARRE. 

By  A.  MARY  F.  ROBINSON. 

One  Volume.    16mo.    Cloth.    Price,  $1.00. 


The  latest  addition  to  the  excellent  "  Famous  Women  Series  "  is  a  sketch  of  the 
Queen  of  Navarre,  one  of  the  most  deservedly  famous  women  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. In  political  influence  she  is  fitly  compared  to  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England 
and  Margaret  of  Austria;  and  as  to  her  services  to  religion,  she  has  been  referred 
to  as  "  the  divinity  of  the  great  religious  movement  of  her  time,  and  the  upholder  of 
the  mere  natural  rights  of  humanity  in  an  age  that  only  respected  opinions."  The 
story  of  this  remarkable  woman  is  here  told  briefly,  and  with  a  discrimination  that 
does  credit  to  the  biographer.  —  Times-Star ',  Cincinnati. 

Margaret  of  Angoulême  furnishes  a  noble  subject,  which  has  been  ably  treated. 
Miss  Robinson's  sketch  proves  thorough  research  and  a  clear  conception  of  her 
work,  possessing  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  characters  and  events  connected  with 
that  period.  She  is  in  sympathy  with  every  movement,  and  explicit  in  detail,  being 
strictly  confined  to  facts  which  may  be  authentically  received.  .  .  .  This  excellent 
biography  is  a  source  of  enjoyment  from  the  first  page  to  the  last,  and  should  be 
read  by  every  student  and  lover  of  history.  It  abounds  in  instructive  and  enjoy- 
able reading,  furnishing  a  valuable  addition  to  this  popular  series.  —  Utica  Press. 

One  of  the  most  readable  volumes  thus  far  in  the  *'  Famous  Women  Series  " 
has  just  been  published  by  Roberts  Brothers.  It  is  Mary  F.  Robinson's  "Life 
of  Margaret  of  Angoulême,  Queen  of  Navarre."  Judging  from  the  fifty  different 
authorities  that  the  writer  has  consulted,  it  is  evident  that  she  has  taken  great 
pains  to  sympathize  with  the  spirit  of  the  era  which  she  describes.  Only  a  warm 
imagination,  stimulated  by  an  intimate  knowledge  of  details,  will  help  an  author 
to  make  his  reader  realize  that  the  past  was  as  present  to  those  who  lived  in  it  as 
the  present  is  to  us.  Miss  Robinson  has  compiled  a  popular  history,  that  has  the 
easy  flow  and  lifelike  picturesqueness  which  it  is  so  often  the  aim  of  the  novelist  to 
display.  Such  books  as  this,  carefully  and  even  artistically  written  as  they  are, 
help  to  fill  up  vacant  nooks  in  the  minds  of  those  who  have  read  large  histories  in 
which  personal  biography  can  hold  but  a  small  place  ;  while  at  the  same  time  they 
give  the  non-historical  reader  a  good  deal  of  information  which  is,  or  ought  to 
be,  more  interesting  than  many  a  fiction.  Nor  does  Miss  Robinson  estimate  the 
influence  of  Margaret  of  Angoulême  wrongly  when  she  traces  the  salvation  of  a 
nation  to  her  mercy  and  magnanimity.  —  N.  Y.  Telegram.  < 

It  is  reasonable  and  impartial  in  its  views,  and  yet  clear  in  its  judgments.  The 
immense  importance  of  Queen  Margaret's  influence  on  the  beginnings  of  modern 
thoughts  in  France  is  clearly  set  forth,  but  without  exaggeration  or  undue  empha- 
sis. Miss  Robinson  is  especially  happy  in  her  portrayal  of  Margaret's  complex 
character,  which  under  her  hand  becomes>  both  human  and  consistent  ;  and  the 
volume,  although  small,  is  a  valuable  addition  to  the  history  of  France  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  —  Boston  Courier. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.  Mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of 
Price,  by  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston, 


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